


Baby, You Better Start Turning 'Em Down

by LadyofShallots



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-21 15:48:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 80,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1555721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyofShallots/pseuds/LadyofShallots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zlatan hits on Sergio.  Iker has a problem with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Iker looked around the lavishly decorated hotel function room and wondered what he’d let himself in for. Sure, a couple of days in Geneva had sounded okay when the club had suggested it, that he and Sergio attend together, representing it at this…well, whatever it was. Some sort of gathering of the great and good, or at least, ones who wanted to look that way. Waiting at the reception desk earlier with Sergio while the liaison officer the club had sent with them checked them in, Iker had seen Robin Van Persie in the corner, Zlatan Ibrahimovic, surrounded by flunkies, a couple of Germans signing autographs, Mario Balotelli having some sort of tantrum which, Sergio had assured him, was about balloons. Iker would have questioned Sergio’s claims but, well – it was Balotelli.

They’d arrived just after lunch and checked in. There was a welcome reception first, with champagne and canapés, which Sergio was very excited about, because, he pointed out, there was no one to keep an eye on what they ate, and he was sure there’d be lots of ham and cheese and all sorts of cakes and they could take photos and tweet them to Marcelo to annoy him. Iker had observed that Sergio seemed to have a very full schedule of tweeting planned. Apparently they had to take a photo of them together outside the hotel, then in the hotel lobby, then with champagne at the reception, then eating canapés…Iker had stopped complaining after the third photo. It was easier to just put an arm around Sergio’s shoulder and smile for the camera. After the reception, there was some scheduled “relaxation time” (which Iker planned to use for napping), and then, that evening, a formal dinner.

By mutual agreement, they’d split up a few minutes after they’d arrived at the reception. They were there as first and second captains of Real Madrid, they were supposed to represent the club by being polite and sociable and making conversation with their peers. So Sergio had wandered over to talk to a couple of the German players (he somehow seemed to have some kind of in with them, which Iker supposed was due to Özil), and Iker had spent a very pleasant twenty minutes talking to Buffon.

Buffon had eventually got pulled away by Montolivo and Iker had wandered over to investigate the canapés, which were, he had to admit, very impressive. He sipped his champagne and surveyed the room, wondering why the only Spaniards in the room seemed to be him and Sergio. On the plane Sergio had told him he thought at least one of the City boys would be there – not Jesus, he’d said, but maybe Negredo or Silva – and some of the others. Sergio always seemed to know what was going on with their national teammates, and Iker had let him gossip at length about the reasons why Torres and Mata wouldn’t be there (“Mourinho probably thinks we’d try to help them plan a coup or something”), how Soldado wouldn’t come because he was too busy trying to “remember how to score”, how Cazorla had picked up an injury and was getting treatment. Iker knew Sergio had hoped Özil would be there, but the Arsenal contingent seemed to consist of Giroud and that Wilshere kid the English seemed so impressed with. It was funny, Iker thought, how few of their former teammates were here. He was wondering why some of the Napoli boys hadn’t come and debating whether to go for the smoked salmon and cream cheese blini or the calamari when Zlatan sidled up to him. Resigning himself to making small talk with a self-obsessed Swede who managed to make even Ronaldo look modest, Iker selected a blini and turned with a smile to listen to Zlatan describe his most recent wonder goal.

Conversation with Zlatan, Iker had learned from experience, always went best when you didn’t try to actually participate in the conversation, other than to make impressed noises and smile encouragingly. Iker knew Pique had got pretty close to the man; he’d never managed to understand how. You never knew where you were with Zlatan, Iker thought. One minute he would be all charm and smiles, the next he could be launching a kung fu kick at your head. Not that he’d ever done that to Iker, but still. You never knew.

Today Zlatan seemed pretty pleased with himself (well, even more than usual). He talked about how well his season was going, how big a star he was in Paris – par for the course with Zlatan, and made small talk about players they both knew. Iker chatted about how Xavi was, and when he last saw Pique, and watched Sergio, a few metres away, bravely trying to carry on a conversation with Steven Gerrard and John Terry and pretending to be happy about it. Iker couldn’t help smiling, imagining what Sergio would say later about stupid English accents, and how were you ever supposed to learn the bloody language anyway, when they all spoke like they’d stayed out until 6 in the morning drinking revolting beers and then for some reason decided to fill their mouths full of tiny stones and try to start a conversation.

Iker noticed Zlatan had stopped speaking, and when he turned to look up at him, Zlatan was staring at him with interest. Very deliberately, he looked over at Sergio. “He tries to talk to everyone, eh?” he said sardonically.

Iker shrugged. “He’s a friendly guy.”

“Yes. Very friendly, I hear,” Zlatan said, and there was something in his tone that set Iker on edge. “I am hoping I will get to see how friendly.”  
“I’m sure he’d be happy to hear about how you tear apart French defences singlehandedly,” Iker said, his tone decidedly cooler now.  
Zlatan smirked. “I would like to treat him to personal demonstration of my skills.”

Iker had the unsettling feeling that he was missing something. He decided to say nothing and sip his champagne. Over with the English, Gerrard put a hand on Sergio’s arm to emphasise some point he was making. Sergio didn’t look as though whatever it was had been made any clearer.  
Suddenly Iker became aware that Zlatan was standing very close to him. He moved to step away when Zlatan grabbed his arm, moved even closer, and lowered his voice. “It is only fair to warn you,” he said, in the deliberate, slow way he spoke Spanish, always sounding a little stilted. “I am interested in your boy tonight. I plan to have him.”

Iker almost spat out his champagne. “My what?” he spluttered.

Zlatan was looking at him quite seriously. “Your boy,” he said, nodding in the direction of Sergio, who was listening to something John Terry was saying and throwing increasingly desperate “rescue me” looks at Iker.

Iker stared at Zlatan in confusion. “He’s not my…”

“Please,” Zlatan interrupted, clapping Iker firmly on the shoulder. “You do not need to say anything. I am not interested in debate. I tell you as a friendly gesture, you understand? I take your boy tonight, then you have him back. I will leave him all in one piece.”

Iker was stunned. Surely Zlatan didn’t mean what he seemed to be suggesting. “I really don’t…”

“I have noticed him,” Zlatan continued, ignoring Iker. “When I was in Spain…his body, it really is spectacular, no? But then at the time, you know, I had…other interests.” And he winked.

Iker took a very deep, very calming breath. “Are you…are you suggesting that…” he lowered his voice, afraid even to say the words – what if he was overheard? “Are you suggesting that Sergio is my…that me and Sergio…are you saying that we…”

Zlatan looked annoyed. “It is obvious what I am saying. We are not stupid men, Casillas. I am being a gentleman here. I am doing an honourable thing. It was anyone else, I say nothing, I just go and take. You understand? I am Zlatan. I get what I want. I tell you this because I respect you. I decide I want to try your defender, you stand aside. It is only for one night, you know.”

What was the normal reaction to being told, in a reception room full of international football stars, that one of the most famous strikers in the world (a) thinks you’re fucking your teammate, and (b) wants you to know he’s planning to do that for you for a night? Iker has no idea which disturbs him most. A horrifying thought suddenly occurs to him – if Zlatan thinks he’s fucking Sergio, does that mean other players think so too? Is this a hot rumour doing the rounds in football circles? Are he and Sergio the talk of Uefa? Fuck – does everyone think it’s true? When he’d mentioned Sergio to Buffon earlier, had Gigi thought he was talking about his…his lover?

Iker wanted to deny it, to say something, but he was too genuinely stunned to speak. Zlatan seemed to interpret his silence as some sort of agreement, because he nodded, clapped Iker on the shoulder, and said: “I knew you would understand. You are a gentleman. Ah. I see Buffon.” And he strolled nonchalantly away.

Iker stood perfectly still, dazed, and wondering what the hell had just happened.

He looked up and saw Sergio, still apparently being lectured by Terry and Gerrard and looking increasingly uncomfortable. Behind him, Iker saw Zlatan, talking to Buffon and Balotelli, and very, very obviously checking out Sergio’s ass. Iker was suddenly furious. How dare Zlatan just turn up, insinuating that Sergio was Iker’s boyfriend, and then just announce that he intended to fuck him? Well, it wasn’t going to happen. Iker wasn’t going to let it.

He put his glass down and strode over to where Terry was saying, very loudly and slowly, as if Sergio was some sort of dimwit, “…AND THEN I SAID “YOU TELL YOUR MISSUS I’LL BE OVER LATER, SHOW HER HOW A REAL MAN FUCKS. AND THE STUPID BASTARD PUNCHES ME! STRAIGHT RED CARD!” Iker took Sergio by the arm and smiled coolly at Terry and Gerrard. Sergio turned to him and the look on his face was meltingly grateful. “Iker,” he said, smiling so warmly that Iker felt something in his chest twist a little. “Casillas,” Terry said. “Alright mate?” Gerrard said. Iker had no intention of standing there trying to decipher their weird English and even less intention of pretending to find Terry amusing, so he just smiled and nodded. “You will excuse,” he said carefully. “I need to talk to Sergio.” Gerrard and Terry were nodding and grinning at him as he pulled a more than willing Sergio away. Iker tried not to wonder whether those grins meant anything.


	2. Chapter 2

Sergio docilely allowed Iker to guide him firmly away, but when he realised they were heading for the door, he began to wonder what was up. He was grateful that Iker had saved him from struggling to understand Terry and Gerrard – he was pretty sure that Terry had been suggesting he should tell opponents that he was sleeping with their wives in the hope that they’d hit him and be sent off. Which didn’t really seem like the best strategy in the world, if you cared what your fellow players thought of you, which, on balance, Sergio did. Still, even though Sergio was very grateful, Iker had been a little bit rude to the English players, barely apologising before dragging Sergio away. And Iker was never rude. This wasn’t like him. “Where are we going, Iker?” he asked, confused. “Is something wrong?”

“I need to talk to you,” Iker muttered, as they left the reception room.

Looking around, Iker chose the nearest the pillar and dragged Sergio behind it.

Sergio was looking a little freaked out. “Iker? What’s wrong? Has something happened? Are you alright?” Sergio hadn’t noticed anything that might have upset Iker. He had talked to Buffon for a while, though. Maybe Gigi had told him he was thinking of retiring, and Iker was starting to panic about his own career and whether he was on the decline. Iker was going through a tough time at the moment, and Sergio knew he was very sensitive to any suggestion that retirement was in sight. Which was clearly nonsense, in Sergio’s opinion. Sergio cherished the devout belief that Iker was the greatest goalkeeper in the world and his conviction on this point was unshakeable. It was simply that Iker was fragile at the moment, and needed reassurance. Almost subconsciously, Sergio began rehearsing the points he would make to convince Iker that he was as great as he had ever been, and that nothing would change that.

There was no easy way to say this, Iker thought. However he put it, Sergio was going to be furious, and upset, and probably Iker would have to talk him out of confronting Zlatan. But it had to be said, he couldn’t just ignore it and let Zlatan just stroll up to Sergio and make a move on him – no doubt Sergio would punch him and that kind of controversy really wouldn’t do anyone any good. Iker could imagine the tabloid headlines. The Catalan press would have a field day.

“Iker?” Sergio said insistently. “You’re scaring me. What’s happened?”

Iker took a deep breath. “It’s Zlatan,” he said. “He wants to…he wants to sleep with you.”

To Iker’s amazement, Sergio visibly relaxed. “Is that it?”

“Isn’t that enough?” Iker said, taken aback by Sergio’s failure to immediately freak out and threaten to punch someone tall and Swedish.

Sergio smiled. “Well, I can see why that might freak you out a bit…”

“You’re not surprised,” Iker said flatly.

Sergio looked unperturbed. “Eh…no. I sort of got that impression earlier when we were talking.”

“You were talking to him?”

“Yeah, earlier, when you were with Gigi,” Sergio replied. “He was pretty clear.”

Iker could feel himself getting angry again, just at the thought of Zlatan talking to Sergio – no, Zlatan flirting with Sergio, putting moves on him while Iker – Iker, who Zlatan thought was Sergio’s…maybe not boyfriend, but pretty damn fucking close – was just across the room. So much for being a gentleman, Iker thought.

“Did you know he thinks we’re fucking?” Iker hissed.

Sergio paled. “What?” he whispered.

Iker felt a grim kind of satisfaction for knowing at least Sergio was as shocked as he was. “Yes,” he replied. “Zlatan thinks we’re fucking like a couple of rabbits. He told me he wanted to fuck you and he was just letting me know out of respect. Respect! Mother of God, they probably all think it! Your new English friends, they probably think I dragged you away for a quickie or something!”

Sergio looked sick. “He didn’t say anything to me,” he said quietly. “Iker, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I’ll tell him we’re not, I promise.”

“You don’t need to tell him shit! It’s none of his fucking business. The nerve of him, telling me he’s a gentleman and he’s just letting me know he’s going to fuck my boyfriend! Can you believe him?”

Sergio was bewildered. Was Iker angry because Zlatan thought he and Sergio were together, or was he angry because Zlatan thought that and still planned to make a move on Sergio? “I…I guess not…but, you know, it’s Zlatan?”

“Yeah, I know. Mr “I am Zlatan, I can fuck who I want.” You know, I think maybe there actually _was_ something going on with him and Pique? And now he thinks, I don’t know, he thinks you’ll bend over for him just because Geri did. Probably makes sense to him, in his fucked up crazy head. Thinks he can just announce he’s going to fuck my boyfriend and then just go right ahead because obviously you’ll just be gagging for him. The _nerve_ of him!”

“I’m not going to,” Sergio assured him. “So let’s not get worked up about it, okay? We’re supposed to be here representing the club, being sociable and everything.”

Iker stared at him in puzzlement. “Of course you’re not going to. But he’s going to try. He’s going to be looking at you. I saw him, staring at you. Probably thinking about what he’d like to do to you. Whatever it is he thinks I’m doing with you.” Iker’s brow wrinkled with annoyance.

Sergio looked miserable again. “I’m so sorry, Iker. I’ll tell him it’s not true.”

Sergio really was upset, Iker realised. He put a comforting hand on his shoulder, used the other to tilt Sergio’s chin to look at him. “Don’t be sorry, _nene_ ,” he said soothingly. “It’s not your fault, it’s his sick mind, making up this stuff.”

Sergio swallowed thickly. If anything, Iker seemed to have just made him more upset. “Sergio? It’s alright, honestly. We’ll just forget about it. I’ll make sure he stays away from you.”

Whatever he’d said, it seemed to work. Sergio stood up straighter, and shook Iker’s hands away. He pushed his hair back from his face and smiled calmly. “Yeah. It’s fine,” he said. “Not a big deal. And you don’t need to worry about him, it’s alright. I can deal with it.”

His words were at odds with how he’d looked only a few moments earlier. Iker regarded him sceptically. “I don’t think you’re really alright with this,” he remarked. “I wouldn’t be, knowing Zlatan Ibrahimovic wanted to bugger me senseless.”

“Christ, Iker,” Sergio snapped. “Just drop it. I get it, okay? I’m telling you I can handle it.”

This was all wrong, Iker thought. Sergio’s reaction was not right at all. Where was the anger at the idea that everyone might think they were fucking? Where was the outrage at Zlatan’s presumption? It made no sense. “I don’t think you do get it. I’m trying to tell you that he’s planning to seduce you!”

Sergio shrugged and pretended to flick a piece of lint off his shirt. “I don’t know why you’re so worried, Iker. I can handle it. It’s not like this hasn’t happened before.”

Iker stared at him. “It has?”

“Yeah,” Sergio said. “It happens a lot, actually.”

Iker tried to process this. Men hit on Sergio. Men hit on Sergio in sufficient numbers and with sufficient frequency that Sergio was not only not bothered by it, he apparently knew exactly how to deal with it. “Men…men hit on you, a lot? Men try to…men try to fuck you?”

Sergio looked away, pretended to be suddenly fascinated by the landscape on the wall opposite. “Well. That and…you know, other things.”

Iker blinked slowly. “And you...” He was afraid to finish the sentence. There was something in Sergio’s stance, something in the way he avoided Iker’s gaze, that made him nervous. A dangerous possibility was occurring to him. “And you turn them down?”

“Sometimes,” Sergio said, still avoiding Iker’s questioning gaze, feigning absorption in the snow-covered mountains captured in oils on the wall.

“Sometimes,” Iker repeated. “Sometimes you turn them down. And sometimes you?”

Sergio finally met his gaze. “Sometimes I let them,” he said defiantly.

In the silence that followed Iker felt his heart pounding against his ribcage, heard a deafening roar in his ears. Sergio fucks other men. Sergio likes men. Sergio…Sergio, his Sergio, his _nene_ , lets men kiss him. Touch him. Iker’s face was white with shock. “I didn’t know,” he whispered.

Sergio stared at him with an unreadable expression on his face. “Yeah you did. You did, Iker,” he said softly.

In a rush a memory flooded back, overwhelming Iker. A party at Raul’s, at the end of Sergio’s first season in Madrid. Everyone had been drinking, Iker maybe most of all, happy and relaxed and relieved to have another season over, a chance to rest. And everywhere Iker went that night, there was Sergio. Sergio, dancing flamenco with Guti, Sergio, doing shots with Cassano, Sergio, trying to repeat David’s weird English phrases. And Sergio, wrapping his arms around him and swaying against him, drunk and happy and pliant, whispering nonsense about how he wanted Iker to dance with him. Iker, his hands resting lightly on Sergio’s slender waist, returning Sergio’s broad smiles, letting Sergio move him in an awkward waltz. He remembered Sergio burrowing his face against Iker’s neck, remembered the feel of his lips dropping light kisses there, murmuring drunken promises that he would be such a good defender, he would work so hard, he was so happy to be here, he wouldn’t let Iker down. Iker remembers guiding Sergio into an alcove, he remembers coats hanging there, the noise from the living room a little down the hall and cheers from the kitchen where Guti was singing a rambling song about the joys of tequila. He knows he petted Sergio’s hair, whispered soothing platitudes in his ear, that he knew Sergio would be wonderful, would be a great defender, that he trusted him. He recalled placing little kisses of his own against Sergio’s throat, remembers Sergio’s mouth suddenly pressing against his lips, a soft, quick, delicate little kiss that retreated as soon as it arrived and Iker remembered chasing it down, remembered pushing Sergio against the wall and kissing him, really kissing him, and Sergio’s mouth opening for him, accepting his tongue greedily, Sergio moaning ever so softly as Iker tangled one hand in Sergio’s long, soft hair and his other hand sought out Sergio’s hard, firm ass and squeezed it lightly. And then Guti, his voice terrifyingly close, calling their names so that they sprang apart suddenly, Sergio’s hair messy, his lips swollen, and Guti, oblivious, grabbing Sergio and dragging him away, telling Beckham that Sergio would sing for him, Sergio knew every flamenco song Guti could think of.

Iker’s face burned with the memory. And it wasn’t, he realised now, feeling hot and shaky, the only one.

There was another night, Iker didn’t know how long afterwards - he’d think maybe it was the same night but he knows it can’t have been, it wasn’t Raul’s house – on a huge, comfortable sofa, limbs entangled with Sergio, Sergio who was drunk, drunker than the last time, who kept kissing Iker’s cheeks and his hands and who Iker kept letting move closer, until Sergio placed a tentative hand on Iker’s thigh and Iker covered it lightly with his own, pressed a chaste kiss to Sergio’s soft mouth and teased “you need to get fucked, nene.” And Sergio, staring at him with huge, dark, nervous eyes, whispered so quietly, “so fuck me.” Iker remembered that brief, tantalising moment of possibility before he had laughed indulgently and got up, and grabbing Sergio by the hand, tugging him after him and saying “let’s find you a girl.”

Iker knew his face was red hot, he knew his hands were shaking, that he looked ill. He took a deep breath and tried to focus.

The silence felt heavy, threatening.

Iker watched Sergio stare at him, watched his expression change from determined to anxious, and tried to form words, something to make these memories go away.

“Iker?” Sergio whispered.

“I…Sergio,” Iker began, croaking the words out. “It was years ago…it was..”

Sergio watched him struggle to form the words and took pity on him. “I know, Iker. It was years ago, and we were really drunk, and it didn’t mean anything. I know that. It’s just…you did know.” His voice is soft and not unkind.

Iker understood that Sergio was trying to gently let him off the hook, to excuse that long-ago kiss, avoid compelling Iker to explain it. He also understood that Sergio was trying to make him acknowledge that this aspect of Sergio wasn’t a secret. That he hadn’t hidden it from Iker. That’s what Iker couldn't stand. So they’d got drunk and maybe fooled around a little once, over a decade ago. That happened, it wasn’t such a big deal. Why would that mean Iker would automatically deduce that Sergio liked guys? It was a far cry from a little drunken tongue action with a teammate to being buggered senseless by Zlatan Ibrahimovic! And there it was again, that sickening roll of his stomach at the thought of Sergio with another man. Other men.

“Who?” he demanded hoarsely.

Sergio shifted uncomfortably. This was a mistake, he never should have said anything. There are some things he and Iker don’t talk about, have never talked about. They had an unspoken agreement, Sergio had always understood, never to mention that long ago kiss, or that stupid, misguided, lust-filled teenage offer, and now Sergio has broken it. “It doesn’t matter. Just...guys.”

“Strangers? Jesus, Sergio, do you go…do you go out to bars, do you go looking for it?” Just the thought of it, of Sergio in trashy clubs, looking for anonymous sex with random men – oh God, random men touching Sergio, their hands on his body, their tongues in his mouth, on his caramel skin, tugging his hair…Iker was suddenly furious in a way he doesn’t understand, so furious he felt sick, almost dizzy. He wanted to kill them, these strange men who have had Sergio beneath them.

Sergio whitened. Why had he ever brought this up? Why? He and Iker had managed perfectly well for years now without ever having this conversation. “No, no, nothing like that, I’m careful.”

“Who then? Sergio? Who?” What if it it’s someone he knows? Someone he sees every day, or close enough? There are enough PR guys working for the club and for all the various sponsors and there are all the designers who give them free clothes and hangers on of every kind, Sergio could be seeing every one of them, could have had all of them, a thousand times, and how would Iker know?

Iker’s face, pink with anger, his eyes glittering, the urgency in his voice, irritated Sergio. Iker had no right to interrogate him, has no right at all to make demands. Sergio’s sex life is nothing to do with Iker, he’d made it clear, years ago, that he wasn’t interested, that one drunken kiss was all Sergio would ever get from him. Iker doesn’t get to ask questions, he doesn’t get to make Sergio feel bad for getting elsewhere what Iker would never give him, he doesn’t have the right to judge him for taking pleasure where he could find it instead of where he wanted it. The sense of injustice overwhelmed him. “What does it matter, it’s none of your business, it’s nothing to do with you!” he snarled.

Iker barely seemed to notice Sergio’s anger. “Other footballers?"

The thought, once it wormed its way into Iker’s mind, was inescapable and all-encompassing. Other footballers. Men Iker knows. Men Iker has played against. With, even. Men in this very hotel. Mother of God, maybe even Zlatan.

Sergio was suddenly terrified. This was not a question he wanted to answer. It didn't matter anymore that Iker had no right to ask it – Sergio couldn’t have this conversation, can’t go down this road. He raised his hand like he always does when he’s on the pitch and protesting a send off, but it was a weak gesture and Iker grabbed his wrist and pulled him closer. “Tell me, Sergio,” he commanded, the same forceful tone he uses on the pitch, the same tone he uses in the dressing room when he’s reprimanding someone for some transgression, his “captain’s voice”, Sergio calls it, teases him about it, but always, always responds to it.

“Please, Iker,” Sergio begged, getting desperate now, wishing harder than ever that he’d never said anything at all. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not all the time, it’s been ages, please, let’s forget about it and go back to the reception.”

Iker stared at the younger man, at his panicked face, his free hand lightly resting on Iker’s arm, and he knew that Sergio was desperate for this, desperate for Iker to agree, to forget the subject, push it to the back of his mind, go back and have a drink and forget. Go back. Back to the reception, where Zlatan will be, leering at Sergio, imagining him naked, thinking about the things he wants to do to him. Where there will be other players, and maybe some of them will be staring at Sergio and remembering the things they’ve already done with him. Iker thought again that he was going to be sick. His grip on Sergio’s wrist tightens. “Other footballers?” he asked again.

Sergio stared at him, as if debating what to do, whether to argue the point. He gave in, deflated in front of Iker’s eyes. He nodded once, almost imperceptibly. Iker dropped his wrist. He was definitely going to be sick. He knew it. Nausea welled up, he felt hot and dizzy, his mouth was dry. He needed to get away, he needed to get to his hotel room where he can be sick in peace. He stumbled away, muttering to Sergio that he’ll see him later, at dinner. Ignored Sergio calling after him, Sergio’s face, confused and scared and sad.


	3. Chapter 3

Iker made it to his room though he barely knew how. You wanted to know, he told himself. You made him tell you. You wouldn’t let it drop until he admitted it. You wanted to know that other footballers have fucked him. Men you know. You must know them. And even though the knowing is making you sick you still want to know more. Names. Places. Dates. Positions. You want to know exactly who has fucked him and when and where and in how many ways and then you want to track down every single one of them and tear them to pieces.

He didn’t want to think about it, kept telling himself to stop, but he couldn't help it: names flashed before his eyes almost unbidden, men who might be the ones. He tried to remember everyone he saw Sergio talk to earlier. Not Terry – Sergio’d never go near a man like that, surely, even if Terry was interested. Not Ribery, Iker’s sure of that, Ribery’s tastes don’t run towards men. Reus? Iker saw them talking earlier, Reus was laughing, Sergio was smiling…but Sergio smiles at everyone, it means nothing. Van Persie? Iker tried to remember every piece of gossip he’s ever heard about the guy, every story Cesc’s ever babbled in the dressing rooms or on buses but nothing occurs to him, he can’t think, and how can he assess whether one guy is more likely than another when he knows nothing about this, nothing about what Sergio likes, what kind of man he wants, what sort of man would make him… Iker’s stomach gave another sickening lurch. La Roja. It could be someone from the national team. Someone Iker’s seen Sergio with, seen with him a hundred times. Torres, he thinks. Torres with his pretty boy looks and his coy smiles. Sergio hangs on every word he says, always has done, and that fucking pampered spoilt little prince has always lapped it up. Iker wants to smack his smug stupid face. Navas? No. Iker can’t believe it could be Navas. God, Pique? Sure, they’ve never really got on, but there’s that thing about it being a thin line between love and hate, and if Iker had interpreted Zlatan correctly, Pique liked men. He tried to picture Sergio and Pique together and finds he can’t manage it – it’s simultaneously too ridiculous and too disturbing. But it could still be someone from La Roja. And if it could be someone from the national team then…it could be someone at Madrid. More than one someone. A whole succession of someones, ever since Sergio joined the team. For all he knows, Sergio’s been having orgies in the showers and no one’s ever mentioned it. Anything is possible, now that he knows Sergio’s been fucking men for years, been fucking other players for years, practically right in front of him. And Iker never noticed.

How could he not have known? Why had Sergio never told him? They were close, weren’t they? Iker thought they were friends. They’d known each other so long now, knew each other inside out. Iker had celebrated with him and lifted trophies with him and held him in his arms when he cried over losses and failures that were hard to take. How could Sergio not trust him with this? Did he think Iker would hate him?

There must have been at least one Madrid player, he thinks. He remembers Sergio arriving at the club, young and nervous but hiding it with a bravado that was both endearing and impressive. Holding his own on the pitch with players he must have idolised. Players who very quickly came to see him as a sort of toy, a plaything to be alternately spoiled and teased and mocked and petted. In his mind’s eye he can see dozens of different incidents, different players, rolling around with Sergio on the pitch in training, kissing him on the cheek or forehead or even the mouth in celebration, or at drunken nights or even just after a good training session, players wrapping arms around him, pulling his hair…did one of them go further than that? Did one of them let friendly pecks and embraces turn into lingering kisses and caresses that lead to hands roaming over skin and tongues licking and sucking and…Iker felt his anger rising again.

Unbidden the memory of Sergio pressed against him, his arms wrapped around Iker’s neck while Iker’s hands grab at his ass, tangle in his hair, of Sergio’s soft little moans when Iker pulled him even closer and Jesus, how much further would it have gone if Guti hadn’t come looking for them? Guti. Of course. Guti, who flirted with everyone, man or woman, who’d never hidden the fact that he’d experimented…it had to be Guti. Guti had dragged Sergio off that night, made him sing flamenco for Beckham, and now Iker remembers, Guti dancing with Sergio, calling him his little gypsy, kissing him on the cheek. Did Guti take it further, bring Sergio somewhere else, take him upstairs? Fuck, Iker would kill him if it was Guti. He briefly entertained the thought of calling Guti right now, calling him while he’s with his family and demanding that he confesses right this second to fucking Sergio, to taking him away, to having what should have been Iker’s. Fuck.

The thought stopped him in his tracks. What should have been his. Is that how he really feels, he wondered? That Sergio was his? He pushed the idea away. Of course not. Of course he never felt that way. Iker is straight, he knows it, he’s never doubted it. Sure, there was that kiss – Iker skated right over that thought, he can’t dwell on it now – but Iker had never seriously questioned that he was absolutely heterosexual. Sergio was his friend, had only ever been his friend. That friendship had mattered to Iker. It was important. They’d been through so much together, not just at Madrid, but with the national team too, upheavals and injuries and benchings and triumphs and losses and everything in between, and through it all, there had been Sergio, there had been their friendship. Sergio, making jokes and laughing and teasing Iker out of his bad moods or his nervous moments with hugs and smiles.

Iker had trusted Sergio. He’d believed Sergio had trusted him. And yet obviously he didn’t. Sergio had kept this from him, had kept this huge secret, a whole part of his life hidden. Sergio had known Iker since he was a teenager and not once in that whole time had he said “hey Iker, you know, I like fucking other men.”

Other men. There it was again, that twist in his stomach every time Iker thought about it. Sergio and other men. Sergio and other footballers. The names and faces, some of them half-forgotten, of dozens of players that Iker and Sergio have played with over the years flash randomly through Iker’s mind, no logic behind of any of them. They’re jumbled up in his mind, no longer former teammates and friends but just men who might have fucked Sergio. Without ever telling Iker.

Why had he said nothing? Could he really have thought Iker would turn on him? Hate him? Or…did he think Iker would try to stop him? That if Iker had known about the other men, he’d have tried to make him see sense, realise the risks? Is he right? Is that would Iker would have done? Iker knows with absolute certainty that he could never have watched Sergio with a teammate. He could never have shared a locker room with the guy Sergio was fucking, he couldn’t have been on a pitch with the guy and not thought about it, about what they did together. Couldn’t have passed a ball to him at training and not wanted to kill him. But you’ve already done just that, a nasty voice in his head reminded him. You’ve already been in locker rooms and on pitches and in training sessions and hotels and at parties and photo shoots and all kinds of events with men who’ve fucked Sergio. Men who’ve probably had him on his knees in front of them, men who’ve bent him over, who’ve spread his legs, who’ve had their tongues in his mouth, who’ve…no. He forced himself to stop. He can’t keep thinking like this. He can’t obsess over these unknown men, these men whose names he’ll never know, unless somehow he can make Sergio tell him. The thought was tempting even though rationally Iker knew it would do no good. Maybe he could corner Sergio again, order him, beg him, make him confess every name, every name, every place, every sin.

And then what? What would Iker do, if he knew their names? Would the knowing make this any better, any less confusing, any less infuriating? Would it stop this confusing mix of anger and resentment and something else frightening and undefinable? If Sergio recited a list of names dating back to his teens, what would Iker do about it? If it was Guti, he thought viciously, he would confront him. He would smash Guti’s treacherous face. Or no – that would come later. He’d phone Guti, he’d phone him right now and make him admit it, make him confess every little detail. He dug his phone out of his pocket and for a moment he almost thought he was going to do it, before reason reasserted itself and he hurled the phone away.

But even if he had done it, if he had actually called Guti, he could imagine what would have happened. Guti would chuckle indulgently, say “of course I fucked him, Iker,” in that slightly mocking way of his, like he was teaching a particularly slow-witted child to count. “Of course I fucked him, who wouldn’t? He was hot and he wanted it. Not my fault you weren’t man enough to take what you wanted.”

Iker sank down onto the bed. “I don’t want it,” he said aloud, arguing with the imaginary Guti in his mind. “I don’t want to fuck him.” “Oh really?” scoffed Imaginary Guti. “So why did you kiss him?”

It was one stupid kiss, Iker told himself. One stupid, drunken kiss, years ago, over and forgotten. But now the memory seared its way through him, making him remember details he’d never have been able to recall even a few hours ago. Now, he remembered everything. The tight black t-shirt Sergio was wearing, the taste of alcohol on his breath, the scent of some expensive eau de cologne mingling with the spicy-citrusy smell of Sergio himself. He remembered slipping his arms around Sergio’s waist, remembered one hand sliding underneath that tight shirt to stroke at smooth skin that felt hot to the touch, remembered how Sergio’s mouth had opened so readily, so eagerly for his tongue. Iker felt like he was on fire with the memory, thinking about it, how Sergio had parted his thighs slightly to let Iker slide his leg in between them, how Sergio had ground down against him…Sergio was hard, Iker recalled, didn’t know how he had forgotten it. Knew, really, he never had. God, he needed to admit it to himself: he wanted Sergio that night. Wanted him so badly, wanted to sneak upstairs with him, find one of Raul’s guestrooms, lock themselves together inside and just…he’d tried to forget it afterwards, tried to pretend it had never happened, but…he’d thought about it, later. He’d never let himself think about it for long, never let himself dwell on it, tried to ignore it when the memory surfaced but sometimes – no point in denying it anymore – sometimes, when he was alone with only his hand for company, he’d let himself remember it, just for a moment, just long enough.

Fine, he said to himself. Fine. Maybe you wanted him back then. You were both drunk and it felt good. That doesn’t explain why you’re so angry now. He likes men. It’s not a big deal, you don’t have a problem with it. Except that you do have a problem. You have a problem with him liking men who aren’t you. And right now, he’s down there surrounded by men who aren’t you and you know for a fact that one of them intends to make a move.

Was Zlatan Sergio’s type? Iker had no idea, but the Swede had obviously been good enough for Pique, and maybe Sergio would be tempted. Iker knew Sergio didn’t have a malicious bone in his body, but he was only human, and maybe he’d find it hard to resist Zlatan’s attentions, now that he knew he’d been with Pique. Or maybe Sergio wouldn’t even think of that. Iker had left Sergio alone, confused and upset. Zlatan would be only too willing to provide a shoulder to cry on.

Iker felt a hot rush of anger again. No. He wouldn’t allow it. Zlatan wasn’t going to get what he wanted. Sergio was his. Or he should be. And Iker was going to show it.


	4. Chapter 4

Sergio watched Iker walk away, moving faster and faster as though he couldn’t get away from Sergio quick enough, almost stumbling in his haste. Sergio took a deep breath and resisted the urge to follow him, to grab him and make him look at him, to tell him that it was all just a joke, a stupid joke and he was sorry, he was so, so, sorry, he would never say those things again. But even if he said that, Sergio knew, Iker would never believe him now. Iker knew the truth.

 _Why_ had he told him? Why did Iker have to ask? Sergio blamed himself.  It was his fault, it was always his fault, it was his own reckless nature, that same demon part of him that drives him to commit that stupid tackle, that hot-headedness that makes him argue with referees past the point of tolerance. Many times coaches and teammates and friends have shaken their heads at him and informed him that he is his own worst enemy. Sergio knows it, tries to fight against his nature, but ultimately it’s that same hot-headedness, that impetuousness, that helps him make that crucial challenge, that makes him go for that goal, that helps him drive his team on. He hated it now though, that reckless passion, the fit of temper that made him say words he’d promised himself he’d never say, not to Iker, of all people.

Not to Iker, who had made it perfectly clear in a thousand tiny ways that there were certain things he didn’t want to know.

Sergio knew that what he felt - what he had always felt - for Iker wasn’t exactly right. He loved and respected and admired him – all of these things he knows and can easily confess to. He’s not the kind of person who can hide his feelings; he tells the whole world how highly he thinks of Iker, how talented he thinks he is, how lucky Spain and Madrid are to have him. The glorious saint, the legendary icon. Sergio has always been inclined to superstition, to religious devotion, and maybe it was inevitable that he would be drawn towards Iker. The seeds of his idolatry were sown long ago, before he came to Madrid, when he was first called up to the national team, the youngest player yet called up, and suddenly he was surrounded by men who were heroes to millions. Sergio wasn’t the kind of person to feel intimidated, or at least, to let it show, and he was brave, and he knew he could play, but it was hard, those first few times with the team, not to feel young and inexperienced and out of place. Iker had made him feel welcome, taken him under his wing.

When the rumours started about Sergio transferring to Madrid, Iker had been nothing but encouraging and supportive. When the transfer actually went through, and Sergio arrived, he had been overwhelmed by the differences between Sevilla and Real Madrid, overcome with fear at the thought of having to meet the expectations of fans who didn’t just demand victories, but glorious ones. Iker had been there, teasing him when he needed to be teased, encouraging him when he needed it, reassuring him with sincere praise and warm embraces when it all got too much. Raul was the captain, and he was friendly, but distant, too much the living legend when Sergio first met him to really be someone Sergio could confide in and look up to, and Guti was amazing, maybe the most fun and open person Sergio had met, but he was never someone Sergio could really look to for leadership, and so it was in Iker that he placed his trust. And because Sergio could do nothing in half measures, he trusted absolutely and he loved wholeheartedly. There was Iker, and there was Madrid, and sometimes Sergio didn’t know whether there could be one without the other, and which he loved more.

Sergio leaned against the wall and thought.  What could he do?  Go after Iker, find his room, knock at his door until the other man surrendered to the fear of making a scene and let him in?  Then what?  Apologise?  But why, a small voice inside his head said insistently, should you apologise?  You've done nothing wrong.  He's not your _boyfriend_.  You haven't cheated on him.  He was never interested in you.  He kissed you once when he was drunk, and then he forgot about it.  If he thought about it at all, it probably just made him feel sick.  He's never wanted you.  Even if he ever _did_ want a guy, it wouldn't be _you_.  Sergio tried to shut out those thoughts.  Iker was his friend, and if he just apologised - apologised for not telling him, or for disappointing him, or just for not being what Iker wanted him to be, for letting him down - then surely Iker would forgive him.  Surely Iker would realise that it didn't matter if Sergio had slept with men.  It didn't change their friendship.  

Maybe, Sergio suddenly thought, Iker was disgusted.  So disgusted by Sergio's behaviour that he would never want to be his friend again.  Maybe Iker would cut him off, ignore him, turn him into just a background character in his life.  The thought made Sergio ill. No.  He couldn't lose Iker's friendship.  Iker _couldn't_ hate him. 

And to think, Sergio thought, grimacing.  He'd had such high hopes for the evening.  He'd been so pleased when the club had suggested sending the two of them.  Just the two of them (well, and Manuela, the liaison officer, but she took a very relaxed approach to things, once they'd turned up at the airport on time, got on the flight on time, checked into the hotel on time, and made it to the welcome reception on time).

He'd been so happy earlier, making Iker pose for photos at every possible opportunity, planning how he'd tease Marcelo about all the amazing food they'd get to eat...and Iker had been happy too, more relaxed than Sergio had seen him in ages.  Even when they'd split up to talk to people, Iker had only complained for ten minutes instead of his usual twenty. 

Sergio had made small talk with Ribery and glanced around the room to see who else had turned up. He couldn’t help but feel disappointed that Fernando hadn’t made it. He’d said he would, and Sergio had been anticipating the kind of evening they hadn’t had in months, in years maybe, just him and Iker and Fernando, drinking and talking and having fun. A break from responsibility, and having to act like grown ups. Instead, Fernando was back in England and he and Iker were acting like mature professionals and making small talk with semi-strangers. Still, Sergio had said to himself, as he sipped his champagne, after dinner tonight, and some drinks, maybe he could persuade Iker to join him for a drink, just the two of them, and they could talk, like they used to, before everything got so busy. Ribery was telling him some joke about a man who bets his money on a player getting a red card. Sergio had smiled and sipped his drink and let his eyes search for Iker. Just habit, he knew, and one he really should’ve trained himself out of, but at every event, every party, he’d always find himself seeking out Iker, making sure he was having fun, that he wasn’t bored, or needed rescuing from someone he didn’t like. They’d known each other such a long time now, Sergio knew Iker’s every expression, every tone of voice, every quirk of movement.

Near the buffet table, Iker had been talking to Gigi Buffon. They were standing close together, smiling often, and Buffon kept emphasising whatever he was saying with a hand on Iker’s arm or a pat on his head. As he always did whenever he saw them together, Sergio had felt a pang of jealousy. It wasn’t that he thought there was anything between them. It was just that they looked so comfortable together. Like they understood something Sergio never would, something he wasn’t smart enough to get. Once, years ago, when he was only barely out of his teens, Sergio had entertained the forlorn hope that one day, maybe, Iker would realise that what was missing from his life was having Sergio suck his cock on a regular basis, but he’d given up on that fantasy long ago. Iker was, to Sergio’s everlasting regret, straight. And not just straight, but totally out of Sergio’s league anyway. Even if Iker had ever wanted a man, Sergio knew with complete certainty that it wouldn’t be him. It’d be someone like Buffon, tall and commanding, smart and charming and just so damn classy. Sergio knew he wasn’t unattractive, he knew there were men who’d die to go to bed with him, but he knew he’d never be the kind of man someone like Iker would even hypothetically want, and he’d learned to live with it. So it was fine, mostly, but even so, every time Sergio saw Iker and Gigi together, he felt that dull jealous ache that reminded him of all the ways he didn’t measure up. Would never measure up. Not that Sergio didn’t like Buffon – of course he did, he was friendly and funny and charming and he gave great hugs. It was just that sometimes, when Buffon was around, Sergio felt like a little kid, annoying the grown ups.

Sergio had been interrupted from his thoughts by a hand closing firmly on his elbow. He turned. Zlatan Ibrahimovic was towering over him. “Ramos,” he said, smiling in way that powerfully reminded Sergio of those shark documentaries Fernando and Mata had watched on loop the last time they were all together for the national team. It had made Sergio slightly nervous. “Zlatan,” he'd replied, twisting a little to loosen Zlatan’s grip and so that he could face him a little better. “Ibra,” Ribery had nodded. Zlatan glared at Ribery. “I want to speak to Ramos,” he said. Ribery stared at him for a moment, incredulous, then just shrugged and walked away. Sergio had turned and smiled at Zlatan. He didn’t know what the Swede might want to say to him, though he had a feeling it was probably about Ronaldo and the Ballon d’Or and all the reasons why Zlatan deserved it. That would be alright, Sergio had thought. He could nod and smile and let his mind drift while Zlatan argued his point.

Zlatan’s hand on his elbow had moved up to his bicep. “You look good, Ramos,” he said, and his grip turned into a stroke. He was staring at Sergio very intently, his eyes bright and focussed. He looked more like a shark than ever, Sergio had thought. A big one. The kind that maybe had developed a taste for humans.  “Em…thanks,” Sergio had said. “I like your suit.” “I had it made just for me,” Zlatan replied. “A tailor in Paris. It’s good, yes? You can see my perfect physique.” Sergio smiled, amused. He liked Zlatan. Yes, he was arrogant and self-obsessed and prone to vicious outbursts of temper, but really, that was par for the course with footballers, Sergio always thought, and Zlatan managed to be charming and funny at the same time which, all things considered, made him a significant upgrade on other players Sergio could mention. “Yes,” he'd agreed good-naturedly. “It’s a really good suit.” Zlatan moved closer, his hand still stroking up to Sergio’s bicep. “It is,” he purred, “It is a very good suit. But perhaps you cannot tell quite how impressive my physique is, with all of this material. Though it is very expensive material.”

Zlatan was trying to flirt with him, Sergio had realised, and he hadn't been able to help grinning, because it was very Zlatan, he thought, to flirt while mostly bragging about how impressive he was. “I can tell,” Sergio winked. “You have a very impressive physique, Zlatan.” He hadn't been seriously flirting, he’d just been having fun, and that’s was what Zlatan was doing too, or so he'd thought, so where was the harm? Sergio had never been able to resist flirtation; blossoming like a flower under the glow of attention and he had always enjoyed making other people feel good too. Even someone like Zlatan, whose ego certainly didn’t need boosting.

Zlatan had preened. “Yes,” he smiled, moving in to whisper in Sergio’s ear. “I think this body could show you a very good time, Ramos,” he said, sliding a spare card into Sergio’s pocket. “After dinner tonight. Room 431. I’ll be waiting.”

Without waiting for a response, Zlatan had departed, leaving Sergio amused and really, quite flattered. He was not entirely surprised by the offer, or that it came from Zlatan. After all, it was far from the first time he’d been propositioned at events like this one, and he’d had his suspicions about Zlatan for a long time. Maybe another time Sergio might even be tempted to take him up on the offer, but not tonight. Not with Iker around. He'd looked over at Iker, still chatting to Buffon, and debated going over to join them. He’d just made up his mind to head over when he felt a hand on his arm. He turned and came face to face with Steven Gerrard. “Alright Ramos mate?” the Englishman said, in that strange accent that Sergio found so difficult. He didn’t think he’d have the slightest idea what Gerrard was saying if he hadn’t heard very mild versions of it whenever Fernando, Xabi, Pepe and Alvaro spoke in English. Sergio returned the older man’s smile. His friends all thought highly of him, and Sergio was determined to be friendly. “Oi, Ramos,” said another voice, from behind Gerrard. John Terry. Sergio’s heart had sank. He’d have to be polite to Terry too, for the sake of Fernando and Juan, but it would be difficult, trying to follow not one, but two accents. English was hard, Sergio thought, shaking Terry’s proffered hand.

Conversing with the Englishmen required levels of concentration Sergio wasn’t used to needing when making small talk, and he was so focussed on trying to respond to Gerrard’s questions about how Xabi was, and Pepe, and Alvaro, and trying to formulate the right kind of diplomatic answer to Terry’s unsubtle probes about the last season at Madrid with Mourinho, that he had barely registered that Iker was speaking to Zlatan. He only saw Iker, his potential saviour, and had hoped that Iker would read the desperation in his frequent glances and come and rescue him.

And Iker had.  Sergio had felt so grateful, so relieved, when Iker had interrupted Terry's awful joke, insisting he needed to talk to him.  When he'd seen Iker there beside him, felt his hand on his arm, he'd had that same old familiar tingle he always experienced when Iker was around.  That warm rush of affection for someone who understood him.  For someone he could rely on.  Someone he trusted.  Never mind whatever else Sergio might once have wanted from Iker.  He knew that was impossible, he'd given up on it years ago, Guti had made him see sense. 

And now it was all ruined.  He had opened his mouth and said things he'd sworn he'd never say, spilling out truths he knew Iker would never want to hear, and why?  Because he was angry.  Because he was bitter.  Because maybe a fierce, furious part of him wanted to make Iker acknowledge that once, even if it was only briefly, even it was only because he was drunk, even if it was just tequila and hormones behind it, Iker had wanted him.  For a few moments.  Sergio had clung on to that for the longest time, and maybe he'd never known how much until tonight, when Iker had acted as thought he'd never known anything at all.  But once, years ago, in an alcove in their captain's house, Iker had wanted him.

 


	5. Chapter 5

The welcome reception seemed to have broken up, Sergio noted, as he made his way to the elevator and pressed the button for his floor. This was the scheduled relaxation time, he supposed. Sergio remembered seeing it in the pack Manuela had given them. At the time he’d made a mental note to come up with something fun to do. Left to his own devices, Iker would want a nap, but Sergio had no intention of letting his friend waste time sleeping. He’d been half-thinking of a shopping trip – maybe persuade Iker to buy something gold and shiny – but now…well, now Iker was off somewhere, being furious and maybe hating Sergio.

Sergio made his way to his room, casting a mournful glance at Iker’s closed door, just opposite, as he let himself in.

He threw himself down on the bed and lay there, debating whether he should just go and try to talk to Iker. Try to explain. Make him understand that Sergio hadn’t kept secrets from him because he didn’t trust him. He had thought he was doing what Iker wanted. Obeying an unspoken rule, one he'd been obeying for so long now that he was hardly even aware of it: don't tell.

He needed advice. He dug out his phone and texted Jesús: _Need help. Iker knows._ Sergio had been able to keep secrets from many people, but never from Jesús. Jesús was his best friend, and when Sergio had realised that sometimes he was attracted to men, he’d immediately told Jesús. There were things he kept back – the names of the men he’d been with, and details of the things he did with them – but Jesús knew, and even if sometimes it made him uncomfortable, he was always loyal and supportive. It was the infidelity Jesús had a problem with, not that Sergio slept with men. They’d argued about it a lot at first, and Sergio’s insistence that he’d never been unfaithful himself didn’t cut much ice with Jesús. It was true – when Sergio had a girlfriend, he was faithful, but when he was single, he didn’t trouble himself with whether his bed partners, be they male or female, were in relationships. He didn’t think that was any of his concern. Jesús took a different view. Sergio loved him for that. Jesús was perfect in ways Sergio knew he’d never be, he had a purity about him that made Sergio determined to protect him, and more proud than ever that someone like Jesús had chosen to be his friend.

Sergio had a girlfriend now, and it was serious – maybe more serious that any relationship had ever been in the past. So serious he’d even confessed to her that he had slept with men. It hadn’t shocked her. She’d taken a few days to think about it, and then come to him one day, kissed him, and said seriously: “I want to be the only woman in your life. Do you understand me?” And Sergio had.

Sergio knew what he liked in bed, with women, and with men. He hadn’t ever really been aware of men, of finding them attractive. Like all his friends, when he was a teenager he’d been interested in football first, and sex second. That the sex would take place with women was just assumed. And Sergio had had absolutely no trouble finding willing girls. He was seventeen when one of his more adventurous girlfriends (she was twenty-six and regularly told Sergio he made her feel like a cradle-snatcher, which she didn’t seem to think was a bad thing), while giving him a blow job, suddenly slipped a finger inside him. Sergio had jumped in surprise and come almost immediately, harder than he ever had before. That had become a pretty normal part their sex life, for as long as they kept seeing each other (until she finished her thesis on Moorish architecture and moved back to Mexico). Afterwards Sergio found that other girls willing to indulge this particular taste were rare, or at least, didn’t tend to be the kind of girls his mother or sister approved of. Sergio had learned to satisfy that urge himself.  Even so, it hadn't ever really occurred to him to try it with anyone other than a girl or his own fingers.

The first man Sergio had sex with was a training assistant at Sevilla. He was nearly thirty and Sergio nearly eighteen. It happened on an away trip to Madrid. The assistant, Miguel, was left in the hotel to keep an eye on Sergio, who’d picked up an injury and had been forbidden from joining the rest of his teammates on a night out. They’d hung out in Sergio’s hotel room, playing card games and drinking beer. Sergio had been surprised when Miguel had kissed him – so surprised that, at first, he hadn’t even responded, just stood there limply, letting Miguel kiss him, letting him slip his tongue into his mouth, and it was only when the other man’s hand slid downwards and began massaging through Sergio’s shorts that he even realised he was hard. The discovery had surprised him, a little, and it showed on his face. Miguel had quirked an eyebrow at him and asked if he was scared. The way he said made it seem a little like a dare, and Sergio was never one to back down from a challenge, so he’d answered by kissing Miguel hard and letting the older man undress him.

Afterwards Sergio hadn’t bothered worrying about what it meant, whether it made him gay or bisexual or maybe just horny. Sergio liked sex, and Miguel liked sex, and it seemed to just make sense. Sergio liked the things Miguel could make him feel, he liked how Miguel could hold him down, could push him and pull him, he liked how Miguel bit and bruised, he liked how Miguel fucked him and made him beg. There were no emotions involved – Sergio liked Miguel well enough, but there was nothing deeper there, and when his transfer to Madrid came through, Sergio was sorry that it meant the end of sex with Miguel, but really, he knew it was only the sex that he’d miss, and Miguel knew that too.

Sergio didn’t think of Miguel much anymore, other than to occasionally be grateful for the two things Miguel had taught him – how to suck cock, and how to choose a lover. The first was great, though Sergio was pretty confident he’d have picked it up anyway, but it was the second that really mattered. “You’re not the only player who likes men,” Miguel had said to him, just before Sergio had left for Madrid. “But you don’t want people to find out. Trust me, you don’t. So you need to be careful. No strangers. No picking up guys in bars and believing them when they say they’ll never tell, you understand? From now on you’re just someone’s meal ticket, don’t forget that. Never fuck a guy who has less to lose than you do. Go for the ones so deep in the closet they’ve got mothballs. Go for the ones with wives, the ones who have big endorsements. Other players are best, but not ones that play on your team. Stay away from that. PR guys and executives and all the rest – fine, as long as you know they can’t risk it getting out. Remember, Sergio. Never the ones who have less to lose.” Sergio had treated it as a joke at the time, laughing and asking Miguel what about him then, he had less to lose than Sergio, and Miguel had looked at him very seriously and said: “Kid, I’m thirty, I’m meant to take care of you, and I fucked you in a hotel room when you were barely eighteen years’ old. That story gets out, who do you think looks bad?” Sergio had laughed it off, because back then he was too young and too reckless and too naïve to really understand just how much Miguel had compromised for the sake of illicit sex with a teenage defender under his care. It was only later that he grasped it, and later still that he recognised that perhaps Miguel had loved him, a little bit, after all.

When he first arrived in Madrid, Sergio was too overwhelmed with the sheer size and scale of his new football club to think much about Miguel, or anything other than how scared he was that he’d fail, that he’d never measure up, that maybe he didn’t really deserve to be here and he’d be found out. He’d been so determined to succeed, to prove himself. He’d wanted so badly to live up to the demands of the crowd, to hear the Bernabeu sing his name and know he was worthy. Sometimes he still felt that way, young and scared and insecure, sometimes he still felt like that skinny kid from Sevilla who didn’t know if he’d ever really deserve to pull on that white shirt, let alone wear the captain’s armband.

It had got easier, and part of that was because of Iker. Iker, who from the very first day at training, was there, yelling at Sergio when he made mistakes, shouting instructions when he needed direction, and then – much more rarely and consequently carefully treasured – praising him for the right tackle, the correct decision, the perfect pass. Sergio worked and trained harder than he ever had before, and even if he didn’t always realise it, part of that was because he craved those words of praise. He wanted that congratulatory hug, that smile of pride. Sergio was the youngest on the team, and the others teased him for this, sometimes treating him like a child, other times demanding that he be more grown up. They called him the baby of the team, and the name stuck, but those days were long in the past, and now Sergio was only _nene_ to Iker, or sometimes, very occasionally, when he was around, to Guti, though only if Guti was being particularly patronising and superior at the time.

Of course it wasn’t all dedication and hard work. Sergio was young, he was rich, he was playing for the world’s greatest football club in one of the world’s most famous party cities. Sergio liked to have fun, he liked to drink, and dance, and he liked sex. He couldn’t drink the way other guys his age did – he was too committed to his career for that – but he could dance, and he could fuck, and he made sure he did plenty of both. He wasn’t even particularly unusual. Most of the other footballers he knew spent at least a few years drowning in a sea of beautiful women. It’s just that for Sergio, the fucking wasn’t always with women.

Sergio didn’t really remember ever consciously looking for guys who fit Miguel’s strict guidelines, but he followed them anyway. At first he didn’t go looking for men – there were women everywhere, gorgeous women, all of them willing and available, and anyway he’d thought maybe it was just Miguel, maybe he’d never want another man after him. But then there was a night at a club, at the end of the season. Sergio was there with a big group of friends, some of them from Sevilla, and they’d spent the night drinking and dancing and celebrating. Somehow they’d ended up in the kind of club Sergio usually found boring, but that night, there was a famous flamenco singer in the VIP section. Afterwards Sergio hadn’t really been sure how he’d gone from describing what it was like to play for Real Madrid and listening to the singer talk about the rush he got from performing to kneeling on the tiles of an admittedly rather luxurious toilet cubicle, that famous flamenco singer’s cock in his mouth, but it had happened, and one of the first things Sergio had thought after those famous flamenco-playing hands had stroked him to release was: thank God he’s married. The thought had made him feel so guilty he’d actually gone to church two days later to light a candle in repentance.

So sometimes there were men in between all the gorgeous women, and Sergio always made sure that they had at least as much to lose as he did, and he always made sure he was safe, and he stayed away from men too close to home.

But. Iker.

Sergio had realised not very long after arriving at Madrid that maybe his devotion to Iker, his desire to please him, his longing to win his approval, to be blessed with words of praise from the lips of the saint himself, stemmed from more than simple hero worship. That his fascination with Iker’s pale hands, those instruments through which he worked miracles, went beyond appreciation of what Iker did with them on the pitch. Sergio wanted those lips to do more than praise, he wanted those hands placed in benediction on his own body. He felt it, he sensed it, long before he let himself really acknowledge it, and when he finally recognised that he wanted more from Iker than guidance and leadership, he tried to make himself accept that friendship was the most Iker could ever offer him, and he tried to make himself satisfied with that. But the problem with deciding to stoically accept that he couldn’t have what he wanted was that stoic acceptance wasn’t really a big part of Sergio’s nature. Rising to the challenge was more his style, and no matter how many times he told himself that Iker was straight, and liked beautiful girls with beautiful dark hair and soft skin and eyes that promised everything, he couldn’t stop himself wanting. He couldn’t make himself stop wishing it was otherwise. He couldn’t force himself to imagine someone else when he took himself in hand at night.

These days Sergio looked back on the agonies of his younger self and almost found them funny. He’d spent so long pining over Iker, so long trying to find ways to be close to him, to win his attention, to make Iker acknowledge him, and most of the time he’d been pretending that he was only trying to make Iker his friend, not hoping for anything more. He’d fooled himself, and he’d fooled Iker, but Guti had seen right through him. The night of Raul’s party, at the end of his first season at Madrid, Sergio drank a little too much and became a lot less careful, and Iker – well, Iker definitely been drinking too much, but even so, he’d put his arms around Sergio of his own free will, he’d let Sergio kiss his neck, he’d pulled Sergio into that little alcove and when Sergio had quickly kissed his mouth, Iker had kissed back, harder than Sergio would ever have dared hope, harder than any man had kissed him up to then, and Iker’s hands had been everywhere – in his hair, stroking down his back, cupping his ass. For a few precious, wonderful, painful moments, Sergio had thought all his fantasies were coming true.

But Guti had interrupted them, dragging Sergio away, making him sing flamenco for Beckham. Sergio barely recalls how he even managed it – he had been so hard, grinding desperately against Iker, returning the goalkeeper’s kiss and begging God to please, please, please let Iker take him upstairs, let him find a room, please make Iker let Sergio show him good he could make him feel. But it was all over, and Sergio was standing in front of the most famous footballer in the world in a room full of famous footballers, his face flushed with arousal, his eyes glittering with desire, his lips swollen from his goalkeeper’s kisses, his hair mussed from Iker’s wandering hands, and somehow he’d managed to sing, and keep singing, every song Guti could think of.

When finally Guti had let him stop, Sergio had gone in search of Iker, but the older man had already gone. Left, without even saying goodbye.

And that was it. Iker had never mentioned the kiss to Sergio, never alluded to it, not once in all the years since, not even a hint that he remembered it at all. Sergio had followed his lead, too afraid to lose Iker’s friendship by pushing things, hoping that maybe one day Iker would bring it up himself, or maybe one night, at some other party, he’d drink too much and let Sergio show him all the things he’d learned to do with his tongue. Back then Sergio had liked to think it wasn’t impossible. Once, and only once, had Sergio worked up the courage to make it clear to Iker what he wanted. What he longed for. Another night, another party, sitting on an expensive leather sofa, drinking tequila and teasing each other about mistakes, about matches long lost, and who was to blame. There was no edge to it, no cruelty, they were only playing at their usual roles, really – Iker, the stern, commanding leader, pointing out Sergio’s errors and Sergio, alternately petulantly pouting and childishly argumentative, both of them having fun. Iker like this, half-way to drunk, happy and good-humoured, was maybe Sergio’s favourite; like this, Iker was always affectionate, always indulgent, tolerating Sergio’s jokes and submitting to Sergio’s caresses and fleeting kisses. Sometimes, if Sergio was very, very lucky, or very, very unfortunate, depending on your point of view, Iker would even instigate it – he’d pet Sergio’s hair, put an arm around his shoulder, pull him into an embrace, kiss his cheek. That night tequila made Sergio brave and hope made him reckless and he’d let himself misread the situation, let himself believe that Iker’s teasing flirtation was real and not just meaningless fun, that Iker’s friendly kisses meant more than they did, and when Iker had told Sergio that he needed to get fucked, Sergio had whispered desperately: “so fuck me”.

But Iker hadn’t understood at all. He’d thought it was a joke, just part of whatever game they were playing, and he’d laughed and stood up, dragging Sergio with him, promising he’d find him a girl.

And he had. And Sergio had fucked her. And afterwards he’d gone home and drank some more tequila and cried about the unfairness of life and in the morning, he woke up, he drank some water, he had a shower, he put on new clothes, he looked himself in the mirror and he said: “enough”.

“The best way to get over someone,” Guti had pronounced confidently, “is by getting under someone else.” Sergio didn’t have any better ideas and so he had got under someone else. A lot of someone elses. It turned out that Miguel had been right – their sport was full of men who hid what they wanted because they were afraid – because of their huge contracts, their endorsements, their families, the fear of public reaction, the terror that having worked hard for years, devoting themselves to their career, it would all be ruined just because of who they preferred to go to bed with. It was sad, Sergio knew, and he didn’t like it, but it was a game he was playing too, even though he never thought of it quite like that. Sergio didn’t think he was like these terrified men, afraid of being who they were. Sergio liked women, and he liked men, and he didn’t see how that was anyone’s business other than his own. But it was one thing believing that, and another telling the whole world, when your entire family depended on your career, and when you weren’t the only one who’d made sacrifices. It was too big a risk to take. Sergio understood that, even as he resented it.

Jesús had worked out how Sergio felt about Iker. It wasn’t that Sergio had hidden it from him, exactly. Just that he was still trying to work it out for himself, still trying to find ways to suppress it, turn it into something safer, something less painful. Jesús had figured it out without even really seeing what Sergio was like around Iker – he said he knew from how Sergio spoke about him, from the smile on his face when his name was mentioned. By the time Jesús was finally called up to the national team, Sergio had been pretty sure he’d got everything under control. That his feelings for Iker were gone, safely buried, half-forgotten, except in certain moods and at certain times, like late at night at team parties, when Iker’d had one beer too many and would wrap an arm around Sergio’s neck, kiss his cheek and sway gently beside him, forcing Sergio to help keep him upright. Or evenings in team hotels, playing cards or video games, when Iker would let Sergio lean against him, sometimes even nap on his shoulder. So really, Sergio thought about it hardly at all. Jesús had turned up, and after two days, he’d turned to Sergio during a training session and said quietly: “You’ve got it so bad.” And Sergio had been too surprised to even deny it.

Guti had seen it, of course, even before Jesús. He’d seen Sergio’s crush from the very beginning, first hand, from those first tentative attempts to win Iker’s approval to those desperate efforts to make Iker feel something more than simple appreciation. Guti didn’t know anything about that drunken kiss, but a few days later, after Sergio had passed another training session in a daze, agonisingly aware of Iker’s every movement and longing for him to come closer at the same time as he wished he’d move away, Guti had dragged Sergio aside and said bluntly: “You need to snap out of it, Ramos. Trust me. You’ll get nowhere with him. He’ll never even notice. You’re wasting your time.” “What if I’m not?” Sergio had said, mortified that Guti had noticed but with his pride wounded by Guti’s certainty. “Even if you weren’t,” Guti had said emphatically, “trust me. You never want to be the one who tarnishes that halo. Something happens and people find out, who do you think gets the blame? You, baby. You’ll be the Sevillano tart that led San Iker into temptation. Saints aren’t for the likes of you and me, Sergio.”

Guti had meant well, and Sergio knew he was probably right. But it didn’t stop him looking. It didn’t stop him wanting. It didn’t stop him hoping.

Sergio’s phone buzzed loudly. He looked at the screen. Jesús calling. Sergio answered. “What do you mean Iker knows?” demanded his friend, not even bothering to say hello. Sergio sighed. “He knows,” he said, barely louder than a whisper. “He knows about…about me.” “How?” “It was…well, you know we’re at that thing in Geneva?” “Yes,” Jesús replied. “Yaya is there, have you seen him?” “I don’t think so,” Sergio said. “Not important,” Jesús said. “Iker. How does he know? Oh fuck – is one of the...is one of your…you know, is one of your guys there?”

Sergio could picture his friend’s scandalised face, no doubt imagining that some mysterious lover of Sergio’s turning up and planting a passionate kiss on Sergio in front of a horrified Iker. “No,” Sergio said, cutting off that image, trying not to imagine how Iker might have reacted if that had in fact been the case. Punch the guy, and then try to persuade Sergio he’d been sexually harassed, if his reaction to Zlatan’s overtures was any indication.

“Well, maybe there are a couple of guys here, I’m not sure, but’s that not what happened. It was Zlatan.”

“Zlatan”? Jesús sounded puzzled. “Yeah. He sort of…he made a move on me. But he told Iker.”

“Zlatan likes men? I didn’t know this! Why didn’t I know this?” demanded Jesús. “And why would he tell Iker?”

“You didn’t know? What about those photos with Pique?” Really, did Jesús live under a bush, Sergio wondered.

“I thought they were just comforting each other!” Jesús huffed. “Well. If that’s what they’re calling it these days,” Sergio replied. “But why did he tell Iker?” “He thinks we’re together. He thinks me and Iker are a thing.” There was silence at the other end of the line. Then Jesús began to laugh. “Really? He really thinks that?”

“It’s not funny, Jesús!” Iker snapped. How could Jesús laugh at this? How could Jesús think it was funny that Iker knew everything now, and he knew because Zlatan, without ever even knowing, had jumped to a conclusion that just happened to have been, for years, Sergio’s most desperate fantasy. Jesús stopped laughing. “No. You’re right. It’s not funny. So tell me what happened.”

And Sergio told him everything – Zlatan’s flirting, and giving him his room key, and then being stuck talking to Terry and Gerrard until Iker rescued him, and then Iker’s rage at Zlatan’s advances, his insistence that Sergio should be repulsed, until Sergio got so angry that he told him he liked men, and Iker’s cold fury at the admission. There was only one thing Sergio held back: that he and Iker had kissed all those years ago.

“You need to talk to him, Sergio,” Jesús said, when at last Sergio had finished. “He’ll have calmed down by now.” “I can’t,” Sergio said miserably. “He was so angry. What can I say? I can’t tell him it’s not true.” “Of course not. But he’s your friend, he’ll understand. It’s just a shock, that’s all. He won’t blame you.” “He hates me,” Sergio whispered, close to tears. “No he doesn’t,” Jesús said kindly. “Sergio, Iker adores you. Everyone can see that. He could never hate you.”

Sergio was strongly inclined to doubt that, but his friend was right. He had to talk to Iker. The only other option was to ignore it and hope Iker would just let it lie. It had worked once before, pretending that the kiss hadn’t happened, and maybe it would work now too. But Sergio couldn’t go back to that now. He couldn’t pretend that Iker didn’t know, he couldn’t tiptoe around him, watching what he said and did. He would always be aware that Iker knew. And Iker would always be watching him now, wondering if every man he spoke to was a former or prospective lover. God, Iker would probably even start to wonder if Sergio had slept with other players at Madrid (he hadn’t, for the record).

Ignoring it wasn’t an option. After he hung up with Jesús, Sergio thought. He needed to talk to Iker, that was obvious. There wasn’t time now, before dinner, so Sergio made a plan. He would shower, change, and go down to dinner. He always felt better in a great suit, more in control. He’d go to dinner, and he’d sit with Iker and make small talk with whoever was at their table, he’d smile politely and be the perfect club representative. And then afterwards, he would get Iker alone and he would make him listen. He would make Iker forgive him. He had to.


	6. Chapter 6

Sergio felt better after a long, hot shower. Changed into his suit, he felt more in control. A good suit did that, Xabi always said, and since it always seemed to work for him, Sergio thought maybe he could fool everyone else that he was calm and confident and not quietly freaking out at the thought of losing Iker’s regard. Iker’s friendship.

On his way back to the elevator, Sergio paused at Iker’s closed door. Was his friend still there, he wondered. Should he knock? Suggest they go downstairs together? It would look strange if they arrived separately, wouldn’t it? No matter how angry he was, Iker wouldn’t want to do anything that wasn’t strictly in line with club protocol. Iker would keep up appearances no matter how he felt. Sergio didn’t doubt that for a moment. Iker would always put the image of the club first.

Sergio had always considered himself to be brave, often foolishly so. Friends and teammates teased him for it; many times Fernando had laughed at Sergio’s desire to be the hero. He’d never lacked for courage before, but as he stared at the hotel door he felt his heart quake. He couldn’t face an Iker who hated him, who stared at him with cold eyes, who spoke to him in a clipped, icy, uncaring manner. He would have to face that prospect soon, he knew. But not yet. He wasn’t ready yet. And maybe it would be easier to see Iker downstairs, at dinner, surrounded by other footballers, all of them alive to the slightest hint of discord between them. Footballers thrived on gossip, Sergio knew from long experience – there was endless speculation over who wanted a transfer and where and why, who was getting the best endorsements, who had signed with the best agent, who’d been ditched by his girlfriend, who was cheating on his wife, who hated who and who wanted their manager gone. It wouldn’t take much, Sergio knew, for rumours to start that, having been allies against Mourinho last season, he and Iker had turned on each other. Iker was the subject of a lot of talk these days, Sergio was well aware, and he could easily imagine finding himself cast in the role of villain – the ambitious vice-captain who saw his chance to topple his superior. As if Sergio could ever betray Iker like that.

Iker would anticipate the rumours and the gossip, and he wouldn’t allow them to start. He’d never let anyone see there was a problem between them. Sergio was convinced of it.

Yet still Sergio couldn’t make himself knock on the door.

He made up his mind. Not yet, he told himself. You’ll talk to him soon, but not yet.  

In the foyer of the hotel he saw Mario Balotelli deep in conversation with Yaya Touré. He remembered Jesús mentioning Yaya and made a mental note to speak to him later, if he got the chance. The two men seemed to know where they were going, so Sergio followed at a careful distance, not wanting to risk having to make awkward conversation. He wasn’t sure he felt ready for that yet.

Balotelli and Touré unknowingly led him to wide open doors of the dining room. Sergio could see ornate chairs and tables, players milling around. He couldn’t see Iker. He took out his phone and was debating calling the older man when a hand clapped him firmly on the shoulder. “Ramos,” a familiar voice said, letting the hand trail down Sergio’s back. Sergio turned. Zlatan. “Ibra,” he said. “I…I was hoping I’d see you before dinner, actually.” Zlatan leered at him. “Of course you did,” he drawled. “I was hoping to see you too. Before dinner…during dinner…and certainly after dinner.”

Sergio would have laughed if circumstances had been different. As it was, he blushed with embarrassment. He fumbled in his pocket for the room card Zlatan had given him earlier. “Here,” he said, offering it. “I’m sorry, but I won’t be using it.”

Zlatan’s smile froze on his face. “Why not?” he asked.

“It’s just…I’m just not interested,” Sergio said, blushing harder. “I’m really sorry.”

“Because of Casillas?” Zlatan snorted. “I have taken care of that. I have told him you will be in my bed tonight. He can have no complaints. It is only for one night.”

Iker was right, Sergio thought. Zlatan really was presumptuous. “I’m not a toy, Zlatan,” he said angrily. “I’m not going to be passed around.  It's got nothing to do with Iker.”

"It's got everything to do with him," Zlatan scoffed.  "What's the problem, he's afraid if you get it from a real footballer you won't want to go back to the guy who just stands around trying to look important?  He's right, after I fuck you Ramos, you'll never want another cock again, you're going to be begging for more.  Trust me."

Sergio struggled to contain his fury.  How dare Zlatan talk about Iker like that?  How dare he?  "There's no way you could be better than Iker, he's worth ten of you," he spat.  "You think I'd want you when Iker's around?"  He forced himself to keep his voice low, but he was so angry, so genuinely furious, that he wanted to shout, he wanted to push Zlatan, make him take it back.  How could he say Iker wasn't a real footballer?  And almost as bad, how dare he so carelessly suggest that Sergio would ever be able to compare Iker to him?  There was no comparison that could be made between them in which Iker would not come out the better man, Sergio was certain.

Iker checked his reflection in the elevator mirror. He looked pretty good, he thought, for a man who had just had his world pushed off-kilter. He felt more confident, more controlled, clad in his expensive designer suit. Not everyone was born with Sergio’s innate confidence, he reflected. Some people needed props. He met Buffon in the foyer, just finishing a phone call. “Negotiating a new contract?” Iker teased, trying to appear normal.

Buffon chuckled. “They know I’m not going to leave,” he said. “What about you?”

Iker’s expression darkened. “I don’t know,” he shrugged. “I suppose I’m reviewing my options.”

“You’re not a quitter, Casillas,” Buffon said, patting him on the shoulder. “You know that.” Iker nodded. He wasn’t so sure of that anymore, actually, but he wasn’t going to admit that to Buffon who never, so far as Iker could tell, had experienced a moment’s real doubt in his career. He did trust him though, or at least as much as he trusted anyone he’d never played with. Enough to ask him a question and expect an honest answer. “Buffon,” he began. “Have you ever heard any rumours about me and Ramos?”

Buffon shrugged. “Sure,” he said, tucking his phone into his pocket. “There are rumours about everyone, you know that.”

“Yes,” Iker agreed. “But are there rumours specifically about me and Ramos?”

Buffon looked at him quizzically. “Of course,” he said. “There were lots last season. About the two of you and Mourinho, and everything that was happening. You must know that.” Iker nodded impatiently. “Yes,” he said. “But I mean…more personal rumours.” He hoped Gigi would pick up on his meaning. He really didn’t want to have to spell it out.

Buffon raised an eyebrow. “Well,” he said, a little uncertainly, as though he wasn’t quite sure he understood Iker correctly, “do you mean are there rumours that you and Ramos are more intimate than most teammates?”

For Iker, the heavy emphasis Gigi placed on “intimate” conjured up images of dark hotel rooms and abandoned locker rooms, Sergio’s naked body glistening in sweat, Iker’s pale fingers following the lines inked on his honeyed skin, Sergio’s face contorted in pleasure, all-consuming kisses that left Iker breathless. Images Iker had never thought of before, or at least, never permitted himself to. Fantasies he’d never realised he had.

Gigi was looking at him with mild curiosity. Maybe he wasn’t repulsed by the idea, Iker thought. Or maybe he just assumed it was true. Maybe everyone thought it was true. “Is that what you mean, Casillas?” he asked. “That you are intimate with him?”

Iker blushed. It sounded strange, said like that, strange and secret and more than a little sordid. He nodded.

“Well,” Buffon replied nonchalantly. “There are some stories, yes. But it is football, there are lots of stories.”

Iker acknowledged the truth of this with a rueful nod of his head. “I didn’t realise that was one of them,” he said. “I mean, that there stories like that about me. Me and…” His let his voice trail off, unsure if he wanted to continue down that train of thought. The more he thought about the idea of there being a him and Sergio, the two of forming a we, an us, the more tantalising it seemed.

“You could do worse,” Buffon said, looking entirely unperturbed at the notion of an Iker and Sergio. “He’s got something about him. “

And Sergio did have something about him, Iker thought. The way his eyes danced with happiness when he was being truly himself, truly relaxed. The way his smile lit up his whole face. The way he threw himself into tackles without a thought, the way he charged forward in determination, always hopeful, always optimistic, always believing there would be another chance. How he hurled himself into Iker’s arms when he was overcome with joy, or sadness. How he danced around the locker rooms, how he bounced around the training pitch, bestowing hugs and kisses on unresisting teammates, encouraging and teasing and playful. The way he believed in Iker without ever questioning whether he was right to, or even wise to. “What if Mourinho is right, what if I’m over?” Iker had asked, more than once, the last season, and every time Sergio had stared into Iker’s eyes, his gaze serious and honest and intense and said: “he’s not right. You’re not over. You’re San Iker. Saints are never over.”

Sergio had never doubted him, even when Iker had doubted himself.

Buffon’s phone rang suddenly, making Iker jump. He excused himself to answer it and Iker decided he’d put it off long enough. It was time to find Sergio.

He made his way to the dining room and stopped sharply. Sergio was standing to the left of the door. He was apparently deep in the middle of an exchange with a very tall Swede who was staring intently at Sergio’s upturned face and holding his arm firmly. Sergio passed something to Zlatan – it looked like a credit card, Iker thought at first, then realised almost instantaneously that it was a room key card. Sergio was handing a hotel room key to Zlatan. Sergio and Zlatan.  Iker forced down the urge to storm over there, to pull Sergio away from the Swede and punch Ibra in that smug, smirking face of his.  That smug, smirking face that was far too close to Sergio's.

Sergio felt a hand place itself firmly on the small of his back. His breath caught in his throat. Iker. He turned, and Iker was there beside him, standing far closer than necessary, the set of his jaw hard and determined. His face was a mask of cool indifference, Sergio thought, but his eyes glinted with some unknown emotion. To Sergio’s astonishment, he leaned in and kissed Sergio’s cheek. “Sergio,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you.”

He hadn’t been looking for him, Sergio was sure, because he could have knocked on Sergio’s door, or just called him, but he hadn’t, and now here Iker was, his hand resting on Sergio’s back, staring at Zlatan with more than a hint of a challenge on his face. “Zlatan,” Iker said icily.

Zlatan raised an eyebrow in obvious amusement. “Casillas,” he said. “I have just been keeping Sergio company. It seems he has been abandoned.”

In other circumstances – any other circumstances, really – Iker thought he might have been amused by Zlatan’s exaggerated smirk and the way he barely concealed his intentions towards Sergio. If it had been any other teammate, national or club, Iker thought he’d have been impressed by the man’s self-confidence, his sincere belief in his own attractions. But this was Sergio, and Iker seemed to have lost his sense of humour where his vice-captain was concerned. “Well,” he said smoothly, “he’s been reclaimed.”

Zlatan smirk grew even larger. He let his gaze drop pointedly to Iker’s hand resting possessively on Sergio’s back and in response, Iker deliberately moved his hand to slide around Sergio’s waist, holding him firmly by his side.

Sergio felt more uncomfortable with each passing second. Iker’s grip was tight and not unpleasant; in different circumstances Sergio would have thrilled to be held like this, like someone precious to Iker, someone he cared about. But this was not a scenario he had ever imagined, not even in most delirious teenage fantasies, when he’d passed hours daydreaming ways in which Iker could be induced to want him. None of them had ever featured a belligerent Swede and an Iker whose possessiveness seemed motivated not by desire but by anger.

“We should head in for dinner,” he blurted out, hoping to end what seemed to be turning into a silent stand-off. Iker smiled at him. “Yes, we should,” he said. “We’ll see you later, Zlatan.”

He didn’t give the Swede a chance to respond, turning and firmly shepherding Sergio away from the striker and towards the dining room.

“What was that?” he hissed in Sergio’s ear, when he was sure Zlatan couldn’t hear them.

“What was what?” whispered Sergio, more than a little uncertain of what was going on. Was he forgiven? Why was Iker keeping his hand on him?

“You gave Zlatan a card. I saw you. Are you…are you going to sleep with him?” Iker could barely get the words out. The thought of Sergio with Zlatan made him sick.

Sergio stopped. He turned to face Iker. “Zlatan gave me his room card earlier,” he admitted. “Before he said anything to you. Before we talked.”

Iker felt as though the blood had frozen in his veins. Sergio had taken Zlatan’s room card. He had been planning to go to bed with him. His earlier image flashed before his eyes again, of his own white fingers tracing the tattoos that adorned Sergio’s perfect skin, but this time it was Zlatan’s hands he saw, Zlatan’s hands stroking all over Sergio’s body, Sergio’s hands in Zlatan’s long hair, kissing him hungrily.

Sergio saw it in Iker’s face, his horror at the words he’d just spoken, and he knew Iker had misunderstood. “No, Iker,” he said softly, placing his hands lightly on Iker’s wrists. “I wasn’t going to take him up on it, I swear. He just gave me the card and walked away before I had a chance to react. I wasn’t going to. I wanted…I wanted to spend the evening with you.”

Iker took in Sergio’s expression, his clear, guileless eyes, the anxious furrow of his brow. He believed him. The relief he felt at this realisation was almost overwhelming, and he found himself gripping Sergio’s hands. He let his thumb stroke over one of Sergio’s wrists, feels the younger man’s pulse spike. It set off some unknown emotion in Iker, something a little wild, a little dangerous. His own heart beat a little faster.

Sergio tried to suppress the tremor of excitement his traitorous body felt at Iker’s soft caress. It was nothing more than a reassuring touch, he told himself. It was a sign that perhaps Iker didn’t hate him after all, that forgiveness was possible and maybe they could get through this. It was Iker showing him that he wasn’t going to cast him aside, Sergio thought, and nothing more than that. If only his treacherous body would listen to him, instead of feeling that old familiar shiver of desire at the simple touch of Iker’s hands. “Let’s have dinner,” he half-whispered, entranced by the sensation of Iker’s thumb still gently stroking his wrist, and trying not to let his feelings show. He couldn’t risk letting Iker see how his touch affected him, couldn’t allow Iker to suspect that Sergio harboured feelings for him that were so far from platonic they were guaranteed to send Iker running. Forcing himself to calm down, he shook off Iker’s grip and turned for the dining room, Iker following close behind.

Inside the door of the lavish dining room was a stand bearing the seating plan. Sergio headed straight for it, finding his own name quickly. _Table 4: Iker Casillas, Sergio Ramos, Geoffrey Kondogbia, Radamel Falcao, Edinson Cavani, Zlatan Ibrahimović._

Well. Fuck.

Sergio stared at the list of names, in the demented hope that if he stared long enough and hoped hard enough the letters would rearrange themselves to spell alternative names. He felt Iker beside him again, peering in to look at the names. He heard his friend’s sharp intake of breath. “Well,” Iker said harshly. “It seems there’s no getting away from our Swedish friend tonight.” “I’m sorry, Iker,” Sergio said reflexively, feeling immeasurably guilty. He was angry too. It was almost as though the seating chart had been designed specifically to torment him. “It’s not your fault,” Iker said, but Sergio didn’t think he sounded particularly convincing.

They headed for their table and as they approached Sergio could see Falcao deep in conversation with Kondogbia. He wondered if he should confess now. Tell Iker why this seating arrangement was even worse than he thought.

Iker was trying to compose himself. This was not Sergio’s fault, he reminded himself, and in fact, if he hadn’t known about Sergio’s….tastes, and if he hadn’t known what Zlatan wanted, he would have been perfectly happy with the seating plan. He quite liked Falcao, and he knew Sergio did too. You just need to get through this dinner without punching Zlatan, he told himself. A couple of hours and then you can take Sergio somewhere quiet and you can just…resolve this.

His thoughts were interrupted by Sergio tugging at his sleeve. “Iker,” he whispered desperately. “I need to tell you something.”

“What is it _nene_?” Iker asked, the old endearment slipping out without him even noticing.

Sergio looked pale and a little scared. “It’s…Iker, it’s about the seating plan,” he said, his voice shaking. “I can cope with Ibra,” Iker told him firmly. “It’s going to be fine.”

“It’s not Ibra,” Sergio whispered, staring at Iker, waiting for the moment of realisation.

Iker felt a sickening jolt. “Someone at the table,” he said. “You’ve slept with someone at our table.”

Sergio nodded miserably.

“Who?” Iker asked, his voice cracking.

“Falcao,” Sergio mumbled, not daring to look at Iker’s face, terrified that was a confession too far. Iker might be able to forgive Sergio for hiding his encounters with men from him, but would he forgive him if he knew who those men were? Maybe it was one thing to accept the general concept of Sergio having sex with men, quite another to sit and eat dinner with one of those men.

Iker’s throat felt dry. For a moment he could hardly think, and then he simply wished the thoughts would stop. His sadistic mind threw up image after image: Falcao, Falcao who was strong and powerful and muscular, Falcao with his tanned skin and rich dark hair, who would look so good with Sergio, so right with him. He forced the images out of his mind. He looked at Sergio. The younger man was almost quivering with anxiety, he realised. “This isn’t fair, what you’re doing to him”, a voice in his head that sounded remarkably like Guti pointed out. “He’s not yours, Iker. He doesn’t belong to you. You can’t be angry with him. He can fuck whoever he wants.” It was true, he knew it. So why did it feel so wrong? Why did it make him so angry? Why was there a stubborn part of him that continued to insist that Sergio _was_ his? His gaze flickered over to where Falcao was sitting, speaking to Kondogbia and Cavani, who had appeared from somewhere. He saw Zlatan approaching, staring right at Sergio, that sardonic smirk of his on his face again. Fuck it, Iker thought. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to Sergio’s cheek, taking care to ensure it grazed the corner of his mouth. He felt rather than heard Sergio’s intake of breath. Leaning in closer, he whispered in his ear: “You’re with me tonight.”

Other players all around were sure to have noticed, he knew, but he didn’t care. Right now, with rage and jealousy coursing through his veins, all Iker cared about was making it clear to everyone here – to Falcao, to Zlatan, but maybe most especially to Sergio himself – that tonight, Sergio was off-limits. Tonight, Sergio was not going to let any of those other men lay so much as a finger on him. Let them all talk, Iker thought. They were doing that anyway, and he’d never known, so why should he care now that he did? If they all thought he and Sergio were fucking like bunnies anyway, then they could hardly be shocked to see Iker stake his claim. Let them talk.


	7. Chapter 7

Raised a good Catholic boy, Sergio had never believed in reincarnation, but as he looked around the table, he began to think he might need to reconsider that position. This dinner was very obviously intended as a punishment and he was quite certain that no sin he’d ever committed in his life was bad enough to merit such torture. Silently Sergio cursed whatever past incarnation was to blame for the fact that he was now sitting at this table, with the man he’d spent years painfully lusting after, while opposite him sat one man who’d helped him relieve the tension a couple of times, and another whose efforts to seduce him were quite possibly going to cost him the friendship he’d treasured as a consolation prize. Whatever it was that he’d done in a previous life, he thought, viciously tearing apart a bread roll, he hoped it had been worth it, because he was certainly paying for it double now.

When Iker had kissed him like that, so deliberately, in front of the entire room, it had shaken Sergio more than he’d have ever thought possible. He could barely breathe, let alone think. Mute with shock he had let Iker take him by the arm and lead him to their table, let him gently push him into his chair. On autopilot, he’d smiled at their dining companions, exchanging bright “hellos” and “nice to see yous” and trying not to wince when Falcao kissed him soundly on both cheeks, smiling so warmly and clearly pleased to see him.

It hadn’t been a big thing with Radamel. Not even really a thing. Sergio wasn’t sure what the appropriate term was for a few fast and semi-violent hand jobs in empty kit rooms. That was all that there’d ever been between them – frenzied fumblings after matches when Sergio was high on the rush of victory (it had always been victory back then, or a draw that at least felt like one) and Falcao was fired up with the frustration and anger of defeat. They’d used each other to satisfy an urge, that was all. Falcao felt empowered by having the man whose team had beaten him stroke and tease him to climax and Sergio? Well, Sergio got to prolong the euphoria of victory with a post-match orgasm, and so what if Falcao felt like that restored the balance between them? It cost Sergio nothing. Or it hadn’t, then. The last time had been after the Copa del Rey final, with their roles finally reversed – Sergio, tasting the bitterness of defeat and Falcao triumphant, exultant. He’d cornered Sergio afterwards, a suggestive smile on his face, the light of victory in his eyes, and when Sergio had said he was just going to go home, wasn’t interested, Falcao had been angry, maybe even a little hurt. “So what, you’re only interested when you win, is that it?” he asked, fire in his eyes. “Something like that,” Sergio had shrugged, not even bothering to apologise or make excuses, hardly caring whether he’d wounded Falcao’s pride. He’d been thinking only of his own injured pride. His team’s.

That night he’d sat beside Iker on the bus back from the stadium, unable to prevent the stream of vitriol that poured out of him, rage at himself, at the team, at Mourinho, at Atletico, at everyone. Everyone but Iker. And Iker, who’d been pale with anger and shock himself, Iker, who barely knew what it was to lose to Atletico, and who felt the loss perhaps more deeply than anyone else, that this should have happened in their very own stadium, Iker had rubbed soothing circles on Sergio’s back, murmured words of comfort and reassurance, lifted Sergio’s hand and kissed it, promising that next season, next season would be better, next season they’d fix it, do better, they’d get their revenge.

Sergio looked up from the evisceration of his bread roll and saw Falcao staring at him. Sergio smiled. He did like Falcao, really. He was a nice guy. Their handful of hurried encounters had meant nothing to either of them, Sergio was sure, and had never got in the way of developing a perfectly amicable relationship. They’d never talked about it, never even alluded to it, outside of those brief post-match moments, and when it was over, it was done and not to be mentioned again. Sergio barely thought about it, in fact, he was quite certain that, if Zlatan had not said anything to Iker and Sergio hadn’t confessed everything, he could have sat at this very table with these very people and enjoyed a very nice meal in good company and never once recalled that he had ever had Falcao’s hand wrapped around his dick.

Zlatan, Sergio thought furiously, should have kept his stupid mouth shut. He tore his bread roll in half.

“What’s that roll ever done to you, Ramos?” Falcao said teasingly, smiling at him.

“Perhaps Ramos misses having a striker that he can really take on,” Zlatan drawled, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “And now he has to settle for tackling bread rolls instead."

Sergio scowled at him. Zlatan’s smile grew even broader and he winked at Sergio, glancing at Iker just to watch his expression darken. Falcao chuckled. “Is that it, Sergio? Do you miss me so much that you’ve got to take your frustrations out on innocent baked goods?”

Sergio blushed, and the shameful knowledge that he was blushing only made him colour even further. God, what must Iker think? He didn’t even need to glance at his captain, sitting silently beside him, to know that he must be disgusted. Iker was probably sitting there now, picturing Sergio with Falcao, probably even wondering where and when they’d got together, and feeling sick. Iker was a club man, but not so crazy with it that he let it get in the way of friendships with players from other teams, but even so, would he really be okay with this?

“Or maybe,” Falcao said, “You’ve got Costa to take things out on now.” His tone was still light and teasing, he was still smiling, but Sergio recognised the questioning look in his eyes and he knew what it meant. Falcao was picturing that old kit room at the Calderon, the one no one ever went to but them, as far as Sergio knew, and wondering whether Sergio went there now with Diego instead. Sergio gave a quick, surreptitious shake of the head.

Zlatan’s smirk seemed to grow even wider. “Torres, Aguero, Falcao here, now Costa…clearly you’ve got a real thing about Atletico strikers, Ramos. Maybe I should call my agent.”

Sergio met Zlatan’s eyes, silently pleading with him to end this. Stop taunting me, he thought, as if he tried hard enough and was desperate enough, somehow Zlatan would understand him. Stop trying to make Iker mad, stop trying to make me lose my temper. Just _stop_.

The arrival of the first course saved him. Presented with his plate, Sergio took a deep breath. He could do this. Zlatan couldn’t keep up this torment throughout the entire meal. And anyway, judging by the way the Swede was attacking his food, he’d be unable to talk much for a while, at least.

Iker picked up his bread knife and sliced his bread roll in half. He focused very hard on each action – cutting the bread, smearing it with butter, taking a bite. He knew what Zlatan was trying to do. To rile him. To annoy him. To make him so angry that he would lose control. Maybe Zlatan was doing it because he didn’t like being rejected by Sergio, maybe he was just doing it because he was bored and it entertained him. Who knew, with Zlatan? Maybe he thought he could drive a wedge between Iker and Sergio, make Iker so crazy with jealousy that he’d overreact, and Sergio would leave him.

Sergio, leaving him. Sergio, out of his life. Why did that make Iker feel so helpless, so lost? Had he really come to depend so much on his friend and teammate? It was just that they’d known each other for so long now, he thought. Years and years together, at Madrid and with the national team. A relationship longer than any Iker had had with a woman. The thought unsettled him. Why was he thinking about Sergio like that? Why was he equating their relationship with his own romantic involvements with women? Sergio was a friend and colleague. Someone he trusted. Someone he thought trusted him. Although evidently he’d been wrong on that score. Sergio hadn’t trusted him enough to be open about himself.

The main course had arrived and they were midway through it before Zlatan started it again. “The more I think about Atletico, the more I think they deserve me,” he remarked. “Give Ramos here more of a challenge.”

“Maybe you should call your agent, Ibra,” said Cavani jovially. “Let me be the main man again.”

Another time, Zlatan would probably have taken great pleasure in berating Cavani for having the temerity to make such a joke, but evidently he was having more fun trying to get a reaction from either Iker or Sergio, because he simply laughed and told his teammate to keep dreaming. “You like taking on Atletico strikers, Ramos,” he said. “I’d like to see whether you could take me on.”

“You’ve played against each other before, haven’t you?” asked Kondogbia, looking confused. “You played for Barcelona.”

“Maybe Barcelona doesn’t have the same effect,” Zlatan said. “Messi doesn’t it for you, Ramos?”

Sergio fantasised about reaching right across and slapping that smug smile right off Zlatan’s smug face. If he hadn’t been in a room filled with important Uefa dignitaries and functionaries and assorted hangers on, not to mention some of the biggest stars in world football, he was pretty sure he’d have made that fantasy a reality. Which would have been incredibly satisfying for all of ten seconds, he thought, before Iker would pull him away and berate him for letting down himself, letting down the club, letting down Iker. And then, when Sergio felt very inch the low, small and worthless creature he sometimes believed himself to be, Iker would pull him into his arms and hold him, stroke his back, tell him it would be alright, and Sergio would weep and beg for forgiveness, promise to do better, and he’d mean it, he always meant it, because he couldn’t bear to see the disappointment on Iker’s face.

“Messi’s not me,” Falcao said, interrupting Sergio’s self-deprecating daydreams. He winked cheekily.

Iker took a particularly emphatic bite of his steak and chewed it with rather more vigour than was strictly necessary. This was ridiculous, he told himself. Zlatan thought there was something between him and Sergio, and now Iker had let that thought, and Sergio’s confession that he liked men, that he had been with other men, consume him. Make him crazy. All Iker had to do was forget it, he thought. Sergio was not his boyfriend, no matter what Zlatan thought. Iker had absolutely no reason to be angry. He had no reason whatsoever to be jealous. Zlatan had no power over him – so what if he flirted with Sergio, or if he made another move on him, or if he tried to antagonise Iker by hinting at other men Sergio might have fucked. Men like Falcao. Who was sitting at this very table, smiling at Sergio like the Sevillano was the sun and moon.

Iker distracted himself from that thought with another decisive bite of his steak. Still, Zlatan’s words niggled at him. Atletico strikers. Sergio and Atletico strikers had always been a troublesome combination. Sometimes Iker forgot that Sergio and Fernando’s relationship on the pitch had been a stormy one, back when Fernando still played in Spain. And Sergio’s relationship with Kun – not that it could even be called a relationship – had always been fractious. And Costa? Well, everyone had issues with Costa. Falcao, though. He and Sergio had never given each other an inch on the pitch, but obviously they’d formed some kind of relationship off of it.

Iker let himself look at Falcao again. The Monaco striker was cutting his steak and half-listening to something Cavani was saying to Kondogbia. What did you do with him, he wanted to ask. No – not ask, demand. What did you two do together? Did you kiss him? Did you run your hands through his hair, were you so desperate to feel his bare skin against yours that you tore at shirts, ripped buttons? Did you push him against a wall, or did he push you? Did you take him in your mouth? Did he get on his knees for you? What does he look like, like that, on his knees with those eyes, those huge fucking eyes staring up at you, and that mouth, that mouth that could only ever have been made for sin, wrapped around you? Did you fuck him? Did he beg for it? What does he feel like? What does he sound like when he comes? Does he moan?

Iker forced himself to stop this train of thought. It’s crazy, it’s twisted. He needs to stop thinking about Sergio like that, needs to stop wondering what he’s like with all those men Iker never knew about. Stop it, he tells himself. Stop picturing him naked. Stop imagining what it would be like, him on his back, with his legs apart and his body, that body Iker’s seen so many times that he can call it to mind without even trying, just spread out there… “Yes,” says the voice of Imaginary Guti in his head. “Those are some seriously non-gay thoughts there. I can tell you’re the epitome of heterosexuality. An example to us all.” Shut up, Iker thinks. I’m not insane. I’m not having conversations with a Guti who isn’t even real.

“What about you, Iker?” asked Zlatan suddenly, interrupting Iker’s increasingly uncomfortable reverie. “What do you think, about Ramos manhandling all those Atletico strikers? Doesn’t it make you worry? Or is aggression something you like in a defender?”

Iker glared at the other man. The Swede was incredible. How could he sit there, grinning that shark-like grin and making comments so loaded that it could only be a matter of time before Kondogbia or Cavani picked up on the double meanings? What on earth did he hope to achieve? Would he only be satisfied when either Iker or Sergio finally gave in and punched him? Zlatan would enjoy that, Iker thought. He’d relish the attention. The controversy. The speculation. How on earth had Pique ever let the man near him? Iker made a mental note to talk to Xavi next time he saw him about the young centreback’s life choices. Clearly his decision-making was suspect.

Iker had no intention of giving Zlatan the satisfaction of knowing he was in any way bothered. He would not allow his anger to show. Smiling coolly, Iker stretched his arm out and let it rest along the back of Sergio’s chair. “I’ve got no complaints about Sergio,” he said.

Zlatan raised an eyebrow. “Oh really?” he murmured.

Kondogbia was laughing. “Come off it Casillas, we all hear you yelling at him,” he chuckled. He drops his voice a fraction, imitating Iker’s voice: _“Get out, baby, get back there, you’re not fucking in position, stop fucking letting them drag you about baby!”_

“I do _not_ sound like that,” Iker said indignantly, momentarily forgetting he’s meant to the embodiment of calm and composure.

Sergio laughed, relieved that the focus of conversation seemed to be turning away from innuendo and insinuation. “You do, a bit,” he said.

“Well if you would just listen to me more,” Iker huffed, but it’s good-natured and he could feel himself beginning to relax again.

“Still, you find him satisfactory,” Zlatan remarked, evidently unable to just let the matter drop. Iker met the Swede’s sardonic gaze. Subtly but deliberately, so that Zlatan, directly opposite, would see, he dropped his arm from behind Sergio’s chair and let his hand rest on Sergio’s firm thigh. “Very,” he said softly, letting his hand stroke lightly along the hard muscle.

Sergio sat very still and quiet, half holding his breath, as his captain’s hand stroked its way up and down his thigh. He didn’t dare to move, to speak, in case he gave himself away. In case Iker realised that his touch, this gentle caress, performed for no reason other than to make some kind of point to Zlatan, made everything in Sergio somehow seem to both melt and burn at the same time. In case someone – anyone – noticed, and got the wrong idea, or rather, the idea Iker seemed to want to give.

Suddenly he felt that familiar rush of anger. There was nothing fair about this. He didn’t deserve this. Zlatan, taunting and mocking him, trying to make him lose his temper, trying to make Iker angry, just because he’d got the wrong end of the stick about their relationship and thought Sergio wasn’t interested in him because of it. Falcao, over there smiling and half-flirting, with his veiled speculation about Costa. And Iker. Iker, who Sergio looked up to, respected, trusted and admired. Iker, who had been placed on a pedestal by a teenage Sergio and somehow despite the passing of years and the intimacy that came with time had never managed to topple from it, Iker, the icon who had never, in Sergio’s eyes, turned out to have feet of clay. Iker, the saint whose words of praise and affection were the only real blessings Sergio ever truly craved. Iker, who was letting his fingers run up and down the length of Sergio’s thigh and smirking at Zlatan as if he’d won something. As if Sergio was a prize in some competition he didn’t even know they’d entered. Iker, treating him as if he was just a pawn, a plaything. Mocking every desperate fantasy Sergio had ever had about him with every casual touch of his hand.

_Iker had no right._ Sergio was not a toy to be passed around, he wasn’t the battlefield on which Zlatan and Iker could conduct whatever bizarre form of warfare they’d somehow become embroiled in. Maybe Sergio hadn’t been entirely honest with him, maybe he should have admitted to him years ago that he sometimes saw men as well as women, but he’d thought he was doing the right thing, thought he was doing what Iker wanted. Sparing him from confronting things he’d rather not. All Sergio had ever wanted was to keep Iker happy. Comfortable. Keep Iker in his life. He couldn’t risk losing his friendship, couldn’t bear to have him turn cold and distant, for those treasured moments of closeness to be taken away forever.

And now Iker was proving to Sergio that things could be worse than he’d ever imagined. Mocking him. Taunting him with this laughable facsimile of the very thing Sergio had wanted for so many years.

Sergio couldn’t take it. If he sat there any longer, while Iker teased him with those meaningless caresses that for some sick reason his body couldn’t help but respond to as though they were the real thing, as though they actually mattered, and Zlatan kept making his insinuations and his double entendres, Sergio was pretty sure he’d explode and either punch Zlatan or kiss Iker. Or both. And he really didn’t think the club wanted that kind of headline splashed all over the international media.

He pushed Iker’s hand away. “Excuse me,” he murmured, getting up and heading for the door, as fast as he possibly could without drawing further attention to himself, ignoring Iker calling him after him and Zlatan watching him triumphantly.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Iker watched Sergio walk away, alarmed. What had he done wrong? Sergio was unhappy, that was clear. Not that Iker blamed him. Zlatan had been utterly unbearable for the entire meal, with his smirking insinuations and mocking eyes. And that smarmy dick Falcao, with his knowing smiles and his meaningful glances and that oversized mouth of his, that mouth that had almost certainly kissed Sergio, that mouth that might have been pressed against Sergio’s full lips and all over his tanned chest and along his smooth, firm thighs and god….god, Iker could hardly stand it. I could kill you, he thought, letting himself glance over at Falcao, who was finishing his meal and listening to Kondogbia tell some story or other. I could tear you apart. I want to. I want to hurt you because he chose you. He wanted you. What was it, Iker wondered, that Sergio had seen in Falcao? What attracted him? The long, dark hair? The deep brown eyes? Was it that strong, powerful body, not unlike Sergio’s own? Was Sergio drawn to that strength, that power? Was it that mouth, made for kissing? Why you?, Iker wanted to ask. What the fuck makes you think you’re worthy of him?

Zlatan had hinted at others. Aguero. Costa. Torres. Was he just trying to provoke Iker, or had he real information? Did he even know about Falcao? It was possible. Maybe Sergio wasn’t that careful, or maybe the men he fucked weren’t. Iker couldn’t believe in Costa and Aguero though. Torres. He could believe in Torres. He pictured the younger man, with that toned body and long limbs, those laughing eyes, that pretty mouth. Those freckles everywhere. The way he watched Sergio, the way he threw an arm around him, the way he kissed his face, rested his head on Sergio’s shoulder, the possessive grasp of his hands. Yeah. Torres he could believe in.

He could feel the now-familiar bile rising, the sickness that overwhelmed him every time he thought about Sergio with other men. With Torres. With Falcao. This man, sitting there, calmly eating his steak and affably making conversation with Kondogbia and Cavani.

And Zlatan. Zlatan, who was watching Iker with a satisfied smirk on his face, that face that seemed to be permanently etched with sarcasm. Iker briefly let himself imagine putting down his knife and fork, quietly pushing back his chair, calmly walking around to Zlatan, and then punching him square in the face. It would, he thought, be worth the shocked faces of his peers, the fury of the club, the horror of his sponsors, the screaming outrage of the tabloids. No one could say Zlatan didn’t deserve it. Sergio would probably even be happy, he thought. Proud. He could swear he could still feel the tantalising heat of Sergio’s thigh on his fingertips, the faint but thrilling memory of Sergio’s hot, firm flesh beneath his hand. He had only meant to rest his hand on Sergio’s thigh to make a point, to stake his claim. Zlatan thought Sergio was his…lover, boyfriend, something – well, Iker was no longer going to disabuse him of the notion. Let him think it. Iker wanted him to think it. Iker wanted Zlatan to believe that Sergio had turned him down because he was with Iker. Because it was Iker he wanted. Iker he desired. Let Zlatan believe, let Iker pretend, that it was Iker’s kiss Sergio craved, Iker’s cock Sergio wanted moving inside him. Iker’s hands, moving over his body, holding him down. Iker’s mouth, enveloping him in wet heat.

_But why did he want him to believe that?_ Why was he willing to let Zlatan, let Falcao – hell, let every footballer here – think that Sergio was with him? Was he really prepared to let everyone here question his sexuality, question his relationship, all to keep them away from his teammate? Iker could hardly believe the risk he’d taken, let alone understand why he’d taken it. Why this mattered so much.

Where was Sergio? Iker had hoped he’d simply needed to use the toilet, or get a breath of fresh air. But there was no sign of him returning. He’d looked desperately unhappy, Iker thought. Quiet and pale and sad. Not Sergio at all, not his smiling, happy, warm hearted boy.

Was it Iker? Was it something he’d done? Iker thought he’d be doing well, on balance. He hadn’t entirely lost his mind when Sergio told him about Falcao. He’d smiled and been polite. He’d eaten his meal and he’d made small talk and he’d showed admirable restraint in refraining from stabbing Falcao’s hand with his salad fork. He’d sat through Zlatan’s barrage of innuendo without even once threatening to introduce that smug Swedish face to his fist. He’d demonstrated considerable patience and impressive emotional fortitude in the face of intense provocation, he thought. He thought that Sergio would appreciate it. Or at least recognise that it had been hard for Iker, sitting through this dinner, all the while tormented by Zlatan’s sly little hints and Falcao’s flirty eyes. But maybe Sergio hadn’t seen it like that at all. Maybe Sergio, who must have been just as tortured as Iker had been by Zlatan’s taunts and teases, thought that Iker had been sitting there, feeling disgusted, feeling disappointed, thinking that there was something wrong with Sergio. That Sergio was not the person he thought he was. That he’d let Iker down.

God, surely Sergio knew that Iker could never think that. Surely he knew that he couldn’t let Iker down, couldn’t disappoint him? With a sudden jolt, Iker realised that he hadn’t actually said that to Sergio. He hadn’t told Sergio that he didn’t care that Sergio liked men. Well, he did care. But not…not because it made him feel sick. Not because it disgusted him. Not because he thought less of Sergio. If he had made Sergio feel bad about himself, even for a moment, he’d never forgive himself.

He turned to look at the door behind him, hoping against hope that he would see Sergio returning.

“Just can’t seem to keep a hold of your defender, eh Casillas?” Zlatan smirked. “Doesn’t listen to your instructions, it seems. Maybe you need to take a firmer hand with him.”

Before Iker could respond, Falcao spoke. “I’ll find him,” he said helpfully. “I’m going out for a moment anyway. Need to make a quick call.” He waved his mobile phone as proof.

Iker’s eyes narrowed. Falcao, going in search of Sergio. Sergio, probably upset, maybe angry. Falcao offering a comforting hug, then letting his hands wander, letting his consoling touches turn into seductive caresses, his lips against Sergio’s throat, the murmured suggestion that they find a room, Sergio, convinced he was hated by Iker, an object of ridicule to Zlatan, all too willing to let Falcao distract him from his misery. Iker could see it all happening, so easily. Why wouldn’t it? Falcao was clearly Sergio’s type. Sergio was obviously attracted to him. Iker stood up. “No thank you,” he said firmly. “I think I’d better go.”

____________________________________________

 

Sergio hadn’t had a clear thought about where he was going when he left the dining room. He just needed a few minutes alone, to calm down, to regain control. Sitting there under the glare of Zlatan’s mocking eyes, Iker’s hand stroking its way up and down his thigh, he’d felt as though he could barely breathe, as if his emotions were choking him, cutting off his air supply. He couldn’t think with Iker’s hand on him like that, couldn’t feel anything but impotent desire and a rage he couldn’t ever express to Iker.

He wasn’t over him. He could see that now. He’d deluded himself into believing that the feelings he’d had for the older man were gone, that the overwhelming mix of desire and affection that had once threatened to bloom into love had mellowed into deep affection and genuine friendship. He’d persuaded himself that there was nothing left there but warmth and respect and companionship.

All it had taken was the touch of Iker’s hand and that fleeting kiss on the cheek, so tantalisingly close to his mouth, for years of denial and pretence to shatter into pieces.

Sergio raised his hand to his face and lightly touched the spot Iker had kissed. So close to his mouth. Accidental no doubt – how could Iker know what feelings it stirred up in Sergio? He’d never had the slightest idea that Sergio had been painfully, pathetically infatuated with him, that much was quite clear. Which was, Sergio reminded himself, the only reason he still had Iker in his life at all. If Iker was ever to have the faintest suspicion that Sergio had ever desired him, ever longed for him, ever craved his kiss, his touch – there would be no more friendship. No more pre-match kisses on the cheek, no more embraces, no more sitting together on buses and planes, no more dinners and shopping trips and parties together.

Already their friendship, only a few hours ago so solid, so strong, was a crumbling edifice that threatened to collapse around them. Sergio could place no trust in it. He had risked everything, confessing to Iker, and all because he was angry. Because he’d lost his temper. If he lost Iker now, it would be no more than he deserved and he could blame no one but himself. Not even Zlatan. Even if Iker could accept the revelation that Sergio was attracted to men, had had sex with men, and even if he could tolerate the discovery that Sergio had had sex with men that Iker knew, footballers he’d played with or against and almost certainly would play with or against in the future (which was a very big if), he was guaranteed to have questions. Questions about that night, that long ago kiss. And sure, Sergio could lie, write it off as a teenage crush, or better and hopefully more plausibly, as a drunken mistake that meant nothing, it was unlikely that Iker would ever forget it. He would never feel the same about Sergio now. He would never feel quite so comfortable, so at ease with him again.

He would never totally trust him again.

The gamble he had taken on a friendship he treasured horrified Sergio.

God, why couldn’t he forget the feeling of Iker’s miraculous hands caressing his thigh, why couldn’t he stop thinking about how Iker’s mouth had been so close to his own, so close that the slightest movement would have brought them into contact? Sergio briefly allowed himself to fantasise about what it would have been like to do that, to tilt his head, press their lips together, kiss Iker properly? Would Iker, this strange, almost feverish Iker, enmeshed in his bizarre competition with Zlatan, have let Sergio do it? Would Iker have gone along with it?

What had he meant, when he told Sergio he was with him tonight? Sergio determinedly crushed the persistent , hopeful little voice that made the traitorous suggestion that maybe Iker meant it exactly how it sounded. Maybe Iker wanted Sergio. Maybe he wanted Sergio to be his.

Stupid, pathetic, humiliating thoughts.

“God, you’re pathetic,” Guti had informed him, years ago, flopping down beside him at a team barbecue and flicking his perfectly bleached hair. “Mooning over Iker like that, you know, you’re starting to get boring.”

“Shut up, I don’t moon,” Sergio had replied, shoving him semi-playfully.

“Oh you do, baby. You moon more than any girl I’ve ever known. Sitting here staring at him, sighing. I bet you want to draw little love hearts around his name on the teamsheets.”

“I’m not that obvious,” Sergio had snapped. Then, a little uncertainly, “Am I?”

Guti had sighed. “No. You’re not that obvious. To him, anyway. Maybe just to me. But I can read unrequited love like a book.” He’d patted Sergio consolingly on the arm. “You need to get over this, Sergio.”

“I know,” Sergio had whispered, ashamed. “I’m trying. I’m really trying.”

“Try harder,” Guti had said firmly. “Find another guy to obsess over.”

“And that’ll work? Trying harder? Looking for someone else?” Sergio had been doubtful, but oh so eager to believe, to hope. Guti was staring at Raul with something entirely undecipherable in his eyes. “It works, eventually,” he’d said. “Sometimes you have to try a lot of someone elses.”

Sergio fished out his phone and checked his messages. A text from Jesus. _“Well?”_

Almost on autopilot, he texted back. _“I’m not over him.”_

His phone pinged almost instantly. _“Duh”_.

So it had been obvious to Jesus, too. And he’d been so sure, so very certain that it was over, that it was all in the past and he was moving on. _“I can’t lose his friendship,”_ he texted.

Again the response was almost instantaneous. _“You won’t. Just talk to him. He’s your friend. Promise.”_

Behind him, he heard someone clear his throat.

He knew immediately who it was.

Iker.

____________________________________________________________________

“You’re missing dessert,” Iker said. “It’s lemon tart. You love lemon tart.”

"Not tonight,” Sergio said quietly.

“Every night,” Iker replied,a smile in his voice. “You never say no to lemon tart.”

Sergio turned to look at him. His eyes were sad, he looked wan and tired.

You did this to him, Iker told himself. You’ve made him look like that.

Iker had left the dining room, hardly thinking how his sudden departure would be interpreted by Cavani and Kondogbia, and not caring if Zlatan thought it was a lover’s tiff. He’d guessed Sergio had intended to return and wouldn’t have gone far, and all it had really taken was a few moments to consider, to think about where Sergio was likely to have gone, to find him, here, in the hotel’s vast, empty ballroom, leaning against an ornamental Greek column.

Something about the way he looked, standing there, bathed in moonlight, made Iker picture him, spread out on a bed, in a darkened hotel room, some other man bending over him, some stranger, running his hands over Sergio’s body, raising little goosebumps of arousal. Other men have done that, he thinks. Falcao, and who knows how many others. He shook his head as if by doing so he could dislodge the idea from his treacherous mind.

“Sergio,” he said softly, stutteringly.

“What, Iker?” Sergio asked tiredly. “What do you want? Do you want me to go back and eat lemon tart and smile and be nice to Zlatan and Kondogbia and Cavani and Radamel?”

_“Radamel?”_ snorts Iker derisively. “No, I don’t want you to be _nice_ to Radamel.”

His tone irritates Sergio, sets him on edge, and he’s right back to resenting Iker for his casual possessiveness, for the words that suggest jealousy and the actions that hint at deeper emotions but which Sergio knows are really just anger that there was something about Sergio he didn’t know, that there were things Sergio kept from him, and disgust at exactly what those things were.

“I can be _nice_ to whoever I want, Iker!” Sergio hissed, half-lost to anger and resentment and pain now. “I can be _nice_ to Falcao, I can be _nice_ to Zlatan.”

Iker stepped forward, furious. “Oh really? I thought you’d already been _nice_ to Falcao. Tell me, is that why we lost the Copa del Rey? You were too busy thinking about being _nice_ to him? Distracted thinking about what you wanted him to do to you?”

Sergio stared at him in shock. For a moment he was honestly too stunned, too outraged to react. “Fuck you, Iker,” he spat “Fuck. You.”

Iker regretted the words the moment they’d left his mouth and now, all he wanted to do was throw himself on Sergio and beg forgiveness. He knew it wasn’t true. “Sergio,” he said hoarsely. “I’m sorry.”

Sergio turned away, the fight gone out of him. “Just leave me alone, Iker,” he said.

Iker thought about it. He thought about leaving now, with nothing resolved, returning to finish the meal, making polite small talk, taking coffee afterwards with Uefa bigwigs, having a beer later with Buffon or Gerrard, Sergio alone, angry and hurt, and maybe later, Sergio would seek out Zlatan or Falcao or someone else, someone Iker didn’t even know about, and let them take his mind off his selfish, cruel captain. He couldn’t do it. He needed to make things right. He needed to let Sergio know that everything was twisted, it had gone wrong, but one thing would always be clear: Sergio was not someone he was prepared to lose. He would not let things go like this.

Iker stepped forward and placed a firm hand on Sergio’s arm. He moved even closer, until his chest was pressed against Sergio’s back. He let his hand move slowly up and down Sergio’s arm. “ _Nene_ ,” he whispered softly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

“You said it,” Sergio huffed, his breathing heavier, the feeling of Iker pressed against him a delicious torment that he hardly dared to let himself enjoy.

“I know,” Iker said, stroking Sergio’s arm more deliberately, his voice soft, almost seductive. “But I didn’t mean it.”

“So why did you say it?” Sergio murmured, letting himself be lulled by the softness of Iker’s voice, the soothing caress of his hand, the reassuring solidity of the man pressed against his back.

Iker breathed in the familiar scent of Sergio, the same citrusy-spicy smell of the younger man mixed with a cologne even more expensive than the one he’d worn years ago, when they were both younger and vastly more foolish or maybe not foolish enough. Iker at least hadn’t been foolish enough to have forget the consequences and just let himself go with what he’d wanted. Well, he was older now.

Maybe it was because he was overcome by memory and by sensation, maybe he was seduced into honesty by the curves of Sergio’s body as it rested against his, by the smell of him, the feel of him. Maybe he was just tired. “It makes me crazy,” he confessed. “Thinking about you with him. Thinking about you with Zlatan. Or anyone, really. Wondering how many guys you’ve been with, if I know them, whether I’ve been on a pitch with them. _Fuck_ , Sergio. I want to kill them.”

“I’m sorry,” Sergio whispered, almost reflexively.

“Don’t apologise,” Iker said. “It’s me. It’s my problem. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Iker,” Sergio breathed, and for the first time Iker felt how the younger man was soft and pliant against him, how his breathing was heavy, how his heart was thumping in his chest, and suddenly he knew. “You didn’t want any of them, did you?” he said, half amazed at his own confidence. “It wasn’t Falcao you wanted. Or Zlatan.” He pressed even closer against Sergio. “You wanted this.” Sergio shuddered. “Iker,” he whispered again, in protest or affirmation, Iker couldn’t tell.

Iker was more certain of this than he’s ever been of anything that wasn’t on the pitch. It’s like standing in goal, midway through a shootout, watching a player step forward to take his penalty and knowing, just _knowing_ , that he’ll go right, and that Iker will save it. It’s gut reaction, it’s instinct, it’s a thousand intangibles forming a unified chorus in his mind and telling him he’s right, this is the truth, this is what’s meant to be. And it’s not just that moment, that precious, pristine moment of crystalline certainty before he throws his body to the right and stretches out and punches that ball away – it’s the elation afterwards, that perfect, pure distillation of conviction and relief, the rush of endorphins when the ball is gone and the crowd is roaring and his teammates are thumping him delightedly on the back. Pressed against his defender’s back in a dimly lit hotel ballroom in Geneva, feeling the younger man quiver at his words, at his proximity, Iker knew that every word he’d said was true, that he was what Sergio wanted, and he could laugh, he could laugh with relief, because he knows now that none of those men could ever have given Sergio just what he wanted. “Yeah,” Iker murmured. “This is what you wanted. I know Falcao couldn’t give it to you. Couldn’t please you. Zlatan would never make you happy. And Torres? Fernando’s not what you need, is he baby? I _know_ you. I know what you need.”

He slid one hand onto Sergio’s side and exerted a gentle pressure, so that Sergio fell back against him, his back against Iker’s chest. Iker rested his chin on Sergio’s shoulder, relished the sight of Sergio swallowing. His tongue darted out and licked his neck lightly. Sergio shuddered. Iker slipped his hand into Sergio’s pocket, smiled to himself when he found two key cards in there. He removed one. “Go upstairs,” he whispered. “To your room. Wait for me.” Sergio’s breath caught. “Iker…” he murmured, confused, not knowing what Iker meant, knowing it can’t possibly be how it sounds. “Ssh.” Iker raised his hand and gently traced a finger down Sergio’s throat. “You want to, don’t you?” he asked. Sergio nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Say yes,” Iker prompted. “Yes,” Sergio exhales. Iker smiled. “Good,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to Sergio’s neck. “Go. Now.”

He gently shoved Sergio forward and the younger man stumbled a little. He turned to look at Iker and his eyes were huge and uncertain. He looked dazed, a little frightened even, but Iker could read Sergio like a book and he knew there was no real hesitation or reluctance. He nodded encouragingly at him and Sergio turned and walked away.

Iker leaned back against the ridiculous Greek column and sighed. He was amazed at how calm he felt, even though at least half of him was freaking out, wondering what the hell he thought he was doing. You’re practically married, he scolded himself. You have a baby on the way. What the hell are you thinking? You’ve never done anything like this, you’ve never cheated on anyone in your life. You’re not even _gay_. The problem is the other part of him, that part of him that doesn’t want to listen to reason, that doesn’t want to think about girlfriends and babies and all the rules he’s never broken before, and that can’t even think about things like straight or gay. The dark, secret part of Iker that came roaring into life when Sergio told him that there were men, that there had been men, and Iker was suddenly reminded of that years-old kiss. That part of Iker remembered hot skin and firm thighs and a man’s hardness grinding against him and feverish kisses, and it didn’t care about straight or gay, or girlfriends or babies, it just _wanted._

Iker’s not even sure if he really wants Sergio, or if he just doesn’t want Sergio to want anyone else, but either way the outcome is the same: he needs to have Sergio, he needs to claim Sergio, he needs to make Sergio _his_. These last couple of years, when the very foundations of his world have shifted beneath him, leaving him lost and scared and seasick, Sergio had been a rock, anchoring him to reality, reminding him of he was and all he had done. Sergio had never stopped believing in him, never doubted that he would win his place back. Sergio had kept the faith when even Iker felt his belief wavering. Even so, as Iker left the ballroom, the keycard gripped firmly between his fingers, he knew it was just an excuse.

It wasn’t about gratitude, or needing to find another way to bind Sergio to him. This was about desire. It was about lust. It was about Sergio, upstairs, waiting for Iker. Wanting Iker. Needing Iker. Just as badly as Iker needed him.

 


	9. Chapter 9

Sergio made his way to his room, hardly knowing how. He barely noticed Reus waving at him from the door of the reception room, or Manuel Neuer glaring at him and opening his mouth to call his name.

In his room he took off his jacket, throwing it across a chair. He raided the mini bar for a bottle of still water and gulped down a glass, then wondered if maybe he should have a gin and tonic to settle his nerves. The room felt small and oppressive, a space far too enclosed, too cramped to contain both him and Iker. He felt hot. He loosened his bow tie and opened the top three buttons of his white shirt.

Still the room felt far too warm. He drank another glass of water.

His hands were shaking.

He sat down on the bed.

 _“You wanted this,_ ” Iker had said, not even half an hour before, his body pressed against Sergio’s, his one hand holding Sergio in place against him and the other trailing sparks of pleasure along Sergio’s arm. “You wanted this,” he’d said, and he hadn’t sounded disgusted at all, hadn’t sounded angry, repulsed, outraged. “You wanted this,” he’d said, as if marvelling at the knowledge, as though the revelation had filled him with wonder. Sergio had marvelled too, soothed by the touch of Iker’s hands into a pleasurable daze, suffused with warmth by the feel of Iker’s body, firm against him. “You wanted this,” Iker had said, and Sergio couldn’t speak, wanted to cry out that of course he wanted it, how had Iker never seen it, Sergio had never wanted anything else this much and for this long, how had Iker never noticed? But his mouth wouldn’t form the words, he couldn’t seem to say a word that wasn’t “Iker”, and every whispered repetition of the sainted name felt like a confession more profound than any desperate cry of unrequited desire.

“I know what you need,” Iker had said, and his fingers had stroked Sergio’s neck, his tongue had licked the hot skin of Sergio’s throat, he’d pressed himself against Sergio so tightly, and then – “Go upstairs. To your room. Wait for me. You want to, don’t you?” Of course he wanted to, of course he did, he’d obeyed in a daze of lust and confusion, but now, here, alone in his room, waiting _(wait for me)_ , waiting for Iker to come, waiting for whatever Iker wanted to do _(I know what you need)_ , it all seemed…unreal.

Iker – the Iker that Sergio knew, had known for years, had trained with, played with, eaten with, shared rooms with, sat beside on planes, buses, trains – Iker would never ask Sergio to wait for him in his room, not like this. Wait in your room so I can come and yell at you about your latest act of blatant stupidity on the pitch, yes. Wait in your room so I can come and tell you all about who’s pissing me off at the moment – all the time. Wait in your room so I can confess that I don’t feel good enough anymore, that I’m worried that I used to have it, that thing that makes a keeper great, and now I’ve lost it somewhere, somewhere I can’t remember, and I don’t know if I’ll ever find it again or if it would even be the same if I did – yes. Far more often that Sergio liked. Far more often, these days, than Sergio could really cope with it. But never, in all that time – wait in your room so I can come upstairs and give you exactly what you need.

Sergio shivered. What you need. He’d believed it, when Iker had said it – of course Iker would know. Iker knew him. Iker understood. But was it really likely that Iker had suddenly decided, after years of absolute heterosexuality – god, Sergio could testify to it, really, _really_ pronounced heterosexuality – that what he wanted now was…Sergio? It couldn’t be true. Sergio had to have somehow misunderstood.

And yet…the way Iker had touched him. The things he’d said. The way he’d kissed his throat. Surely there was no ambiguity there, no room for confusion?

No. Sergio was sure he hadn’t misinterpreted. He sat there, on the bed, his hands still trembling, waiting for Iker, his captain, his teammate, the man he’d longed for since he was too young and too pathetic and far too infatuated to ever realise the hostage to Iker’s whims he was turning himself into. “Just let me have this,” he whispered, a desperate little prayer to whatever saint might feel kindly towards him right now. “Just this, just once, and it will be enough.”

The door opened and Sergio looked up. Iker entered quickly, as though he might change his mind at any moment, entering and closing the door firmly behind him. He stood there, looking a little pale, his eyes dark and his breathing heavy and he stared at Sergio as if he’d never really seen him before at all. As though he hardly knew him but god, he wanted to. And Sergio knew then that his prayer would be answered.

And maybe this wasn’t a good idea, Sergio thought, maybe it’s a terrible mistake, but he knows he’s going to make it anyway, because this is Iker, this is the man he’s idolised since he was eighteen years old, and he doesn’t know how to say no to him, and wouldn’t even if he wanted to.

_____________________________________________________________

Iker waited ten, maybe fifteen minutes after Sergio had left him. He went to the bar and ordered a shot of tequila, downing it in one. Not Dutch courage, he told himself. He knew what he was going to do. He didn’t need to calm his nerves with alcohol. But…well, it couldn’t hurt.

He’d been on his way to the lift when he remembered that earlier, in the luxurious hotel restrooms, he’d seen a vending machine. The discreet kind. The sort he needed now, he realised.

Going to the restroom, standing in front of the tasteful black and gold box on the wall, with elegant cursive writing advertising condoms (ribbed or flavoured, in every size), lubricants (to enhance your pleasure) and even what seemed to be disposable vibrator, Iker stared at the machine for long minutes, wondering whether he was really going to do this, thinking that if he actually put coins into this machine, he was committing to this. To…whatever it really was. He fed a two euro coin into the slot, then another, and on and on until finally he was selecting a box of three ribbed and lubricated condoms, and two small tubes of lube. He slipped them into his pocket quickly, afraid in case someone (god, probably Zlatan) should enter and catch him standing there, pale with nerves, buying condoms and lube from a hotel vending machine. He didn’t think he’d ever live down the shame.

He left the restroom and headed for the lift, determined.

He made it to the lift without meeting anyone who might stop him, engage him in conversation, question where he’s going, when dinner has only just finished. He entered the lift and presses the button for his and Sergio’s floor.

As the doors slide closed, Iker’s phone rang.

He recognised the tone immediately – the one he used for one person and one person only. Fuck.

He couldn't talk to her now.

He pulled the phone from his pocket and stared at the screen, lit up with her lovely face smiling at him as the phone rings and rings. It wouldn’t be an urgent call, he knew – she usually called around this time on evenings when they were apart. He could picture her now, probably home from work, smelling clean and fresh after her usual long, hot evening shower. Calling him for a quick chat before she heads out again to meet friends for something to eat, or attend some event Iker should probably know about but doesn’t remember.

He couldn't answer. If he talked to her, heard her voice – he knew he wouldn’t be able to go through with this.

He loved her. But he needed this. He had to know. He couldn't walk away now, leave Sergio waiting alone, rejected and humiliated. He needed this. He needed Sergio.  
He hesitated only a moment before deciding. He let the phone ring out, then turned it off.

He got off the lift and walked briskly to Sergio’s room. He didn’t let himself even think about whether this was really a good idea, whether he was really going to do this, become this person, the man who would turn off the phone, ignoring the woman he loves, to do…whatever it was he was going to do here, with Sergio.

He took a deep breath and slid the electronic key card into the slot. He opened the door.

When Iker entered the room, Sergio was sitting on the bed. He’d taken off his jacket and his bow tie, and the first couple of buttons on his shirt are open. He looked up as Iker entered, meeting his teammate’s gaze with eyes that are huge and wide and anxious. His apprehension was telegraphed by the nervous set of his body, as if he hardly knew whether to expect a kiss or a punch, and was trying to prepare himself for either eventuality. Iker stared at him. Briefly he wondered how many anonymous hotel rooms Sergio has waited in, waiting for men whose names are unknown but who are not strangers to Iker, men who undressed Sergio, men who touched him, men who sucked and bit and kissed and fucked. He forced the thought out of his mind, tried to quell the anger.

Iker swallowed. It hit him suddenly, forcefully, that this was real. What they were doing was real, it was going to happen. Sergio was sitting here waiting for him, nervous and maybe even scared, because Iker had told him to, because Iker had confessed to him that the thought of Sergio with other men tormented him in ways he could barely express, because Iker had told him that he knew what Sergio wanted. What he needed.

“Come here,” he said, and it’s not a request, it’s an order he expects Sergio to obey, and Sergio does, always does. He rose from the bed and moved towards Iker. Up close, Iker could read the trepidation in his eyes, and it only caused his anger to resurface. Why should Sergio feel nervous, when it is only him, only Iker? He reached out and placed his hand on Sergio’s flushed cheek, pleased when Sergio unconsciously leaned into the touch. Lightly he stroked the warm skin, trailing his fingers over Sergio’s full lips, letting his thumb rest there. Sergio’s eyes met his, and whatever he saw seemed to settle a point for him, because he opened his mouth and took Iker’s thumb inside, sucking and licking and teasing. Anger ebbed away with each tantalising stroke of Sergio’s tongue, every little touch sending delicious ripples of excitement through Iker, Sergio’s wide eyes staring at Iker with a solemnity that would have made Iker laugh in other circumstances but here seemed wholly right, as though the mere act of taking Iker’s fingers in his mouth was an act that required Sergio’s full attention, complete devotion. Iker fed him another finger, almost surprised that this is actually having an effect on him, that another man – no, not another man, Sergio – is doing this to him, is actually turning him on. Refusing to let himself overthink that realisation, Iker walked Sergio backwards towards the bed and pushed him down on it. Sergio fell back and for a moment, half-sprawled on the bed, he gazed at Iker with those heavy-lidded eyes of his and Iker felt a dangerous stab of excitement, arousal growing by the moment.

He shrugged his jacket off and threw it towards the chair, not caring where it landed. Not breaking eye contact even for second, he began to undo the buckle of his belt but Sergio sat up on the bed and leaned in, pushing Iker’s hands away to undo it himself. Slowly and deliberately he removed Iker’s belt and unzipped his pants, his touch gentle but sure. He looked up again at Iker, again seeking something that he evidently found, because he pressed his face against Iker’s crotch, inhaling deeply, rubbing his cheek against Iker’s hard cock and then licking at the damp spot on Iker’s black briefs, mouthing at him through the thin material. “God,” Iker groaned, and Sergio slid Iker’s briefs down, releasing his cock, thick and hard and glistening at the tip. Sergio took a moment to admire the sight, to marvel at the fact that this is happening, he is actually doing this, and then he wrapped his hand around the base and took Iker in his mouth. The sharp intake of breath was remarkably gratifying.

Iker could hardly believe this was happening. Sergio’s mouth is hot and wet and mother of God it’s just perfect, which shouldn’t really be a surprise, because Sergio’s mouth was made just for this, those pillow-soft lips, stretched wide around Iker’s cock, those lidded eyes of his regarding him with such seriousness, a devotion almost religious, as though this is not mere sex but an act of divine grace. Iker stroked his hands through Sergio’s hair, urging him forward, moaning when Sergio took him deeper, so deep Iker is almost afraid, thinks he might be hurting him, surely he can’t keep this up, no one’s ever taken him so far down before, but Sergio does, Sergio just takes it and Iker is amazed at how Sergio looks up at him, at how his lust-filled eyes meet Iker’s without the slightest hint of embarrassment, and Christ, this is better than he ever would have imagined, this is the best he’s ever had. The thought suddenly hit him that Sergio is good at this, so very, very good at this, because it’s far from the first time he’s done it. Anger returned in an instant, enflaming him, but he was so close, so close, he could feel it, he’s about to come, and no, this isn’t what he wants, this isn’t how it’s going to go. He pushed Sergio forcefully off him and the younger man stared up at him, bewildered, his pupils dilated, his lips obscenely swollen and pink. “No,” Iker said. “I want to fuck you.” Sergio swallowed once. Nodded.

“Take your clothes off,” Iker commanded, and Sergio obediently stood up and began to undress. Iker kicked off his shoes and stepped out of his pants and briefs. He unbuttoned his shirt swiftly and cast it aside, ripping off his socks until he was standing there, pale and naked and desperately hard, watching his teammate, his friend, his vice-captain, his hands shaking as he tries to unbutton his shirt.

Briefly Iker wondered at Sergio’s nervousness, and sympathy makes him push Sergio’s hands away so he can take over. He slid Sergio’s shirt off, revealing that incredible chest, those muscled arms. He undid Sergio’s belt, smirking at the huge gilded designer buckle, and then unzipped the pants. He smiled again to see that Sergio isn’t wearing any underwear. Sergio stepped out of the pool of expensive black material and stood before him, naked and shaking a little. Iker let himself look at him. He’d seen Sergio naked hundreds of times before, since he was eighteen years old at least, had seen this body change from that of a slender, gangly teen to the strong, toned body before him now, golden skin adorned with tattoos as familiar to Iker as his own body. He reached out and stroked a hand slowly and deliberately down that smooth chest and delighted in the shiver it produced.

He pushed Sergio back on the bed and rummaged in the pocket of his abandoned pants, retrieving the condoms and little tubes of lube. He threw them onto the bed.  
Sergio looked at them and colours a little. His cock was hard and his lips were still swollen.

Iker couldn’t believe how much he wanted this. He couldn’t stop himself from staring, from letting his eyes feast on that incredible body, spread out before him, waiting for him. Sergio is so toned, so fit, those muscles of his so well-defined that it was hard not to stare in fascination, his skin so perfect, smooth and honey-coloured and adorned with lines and swirls of ink that only seem to add to his appeal. Iker had never properly appreciated Sergio like this before, never let himself really look at him. Admire him.

“Iker,” Sergio whispered softly, uncertainly.

Their eyes met. Sergio thought he was changing his mind, Iker realised. He wished he could say something to reassure him, but he can’t think of the right words, and anyway his mouth was so dry he suspected he couldn’t even speak. Instead he knelt on the bed and kept staring at Sergio, who licked his swollen lips, unconsciously but God, so very invitingly.

Iker reached out a hand and pushed Sergio down. He trailed his hand down Sergio’s smooth, soft chest again, stroking his nipples to hardness. Sergio gasped. Iker’s hands roamed slowly, deliberately over his body, mapping the contours of his curves, ghosting over his hard cock, glistening with moisture.

When Iker drew a finger achingly slowly down to circle Sergio’s entrance, Sergio moaned and spread his legs wider, an invitation, a plea, a prayer. Iker could only marvel at how responsive Sergio was to every caress, and fuck, he couldn’t stop now, couldn’t ever stop, now when all he could think of was what it would feel like to be inside him, to feel Sergio clenching tightly around him, to make him cry in pleasure, beg in desperation. He’s never done this before – not with a man, anyway, and not for years and years, but he thought he could figure it out. He was certain about what he wanted.

He tore open the tube of lube and coated his fingers liberally. The first finger glided into Sergio effortlessly and Sergio’s little gasp of satisfaction was remarkably arousing, the way he pushed down on Iker’s probing finger impossible to resist, impossible not to want more. When Iker added a second Sergio moaned again, worked himself down onto Iker’s fingers, spreading his legs even wider in welcome. Sergio kept pushing down, little whimpers of pleasure and the sound of fingers working in and out the only sounds in the room, and Iker added a third and he fucked Sergio hard, feeling out that spot inside that made the younger man keen in pleasure. “Please,” Sergio begged. “Please Iker. Oh God please, please.”

“Please what, nene?” Iker asked, moving his fingers in and out agonisingly slowly, making Sergio push desperately against him, begging with his body for more.

“Fuck me, Iker. Please fuck me. Please.” Sergio would be embarrassed – almost is – at the desperation in his voice, at his eagerness for more, to feel Iker inside him, to know what it’s like to welcome Iker inside and hold him there, make him feel how much Sergio wants him, has always wanted him, how all Sergio wants is to have him like this, just like this, hot and hard and filling him up, making him moan, drawing those maddening groans of pleasure from the mouth of the only saint Sergio’s ever really cared about.  
Iker would have liked to draw it out a little longer, make Sergio wait, see what it would be like to make him really beg, to have him there beneath him, wanton and aching for it, but he can’t bear it anymore, he felt like he’d been hard for hours and Sergio is so tight around his fingers, so hot and tight and his entire body is begging for more and he needed to be inside Sergio now.

Reluctantly he removed his fingers and picked up a condom, shaking as he ripped it open. Suddenly there was a hand on his wrist.

Sergio was looking at him, eyes heavy with lust but all the same, intensely serious. “No,” he whispered.

“No?” For a long moment Iker thought Sergio had changed his mind. Cold dread swept over him.

“Not…not with that,” Sergio said softly, his eyes imploring, plaintive. “Please. I’ve never…I’ve never done it without one before, but I want to. I want to…feel you. Just you. I want you to come in me. I want that so much Iker. I’m clean, I swear, you know I am, we have tests…”

“Yes,” Iker interrupted, almost overwhelmed with relief that Sergio isn’t saying no, hasn’t changed his mind, and Sergio still wants him, wants him like this, trusts him. Refusing doesn’t even occur to Iker, all he hears is that Sergio wants him, wants this, wants Iker to give him this, this thing he’s never had before, this ultimate act of trust. Iker trusted Sergio, and he knows he’s clean, but the truth is that it’s a risk he might have taken anyway, just because Sergio had told him he’d never done it without one before. No other man had ever done this. This was just for Iker. This was all about Iker.

Iker is not Sergio’s first in any of the ways that count. Iker wasn’t the first man to kiss him, he wasn’t the first to suck his cock, or put his own in that perfect mouth. He wasn’t the first to wrap his hand around hard flesh and bring him to release and he wasn’t the first to slip inside him and make him feel whole. But this…this is something none of those other firsts – and seconds and thirds and fourths and fifths and however many there were and whoever they were – this was something none of them have done. This was something Sergio wanted from him. This was something precious he was offering to Iker, and fuck, it was something Iker wanted to take.

“Yes,” Iker repeated, pushing Sergio back done with one hand as the other parted his thighs again, spreading them around Iker’s slender waist. He reached down, hands shaking, and slicked more lube over his throbbing cock, lining himself up. “Ready?” he murmured, staring in wonder at the younger man spread out before him, Sergio biting his bottom lip and staring at him with those eyes. “Please,” he begged, and Iker pushed all the way in.

Sergio was more yielding, more pliant, than any woman Iker had ever been with, the way he wrapped his legs around Iker’s waist, the way he pushed to meet Iker’s thrusts, like he can’t get him deep enough, like he can never have enough of him. He wrapped his arms around Iker’s neck and pushed himself onto Iker’s cock, urging him deeper, begging for more, Iker fucking sounds out of that mouth that only spur Iker on, make him thrust harder, deeper. It’s intoxicating and Iker felt dizzy with it, with the head rush of his own pleasure and the thrill of knowing he was in control of Sergio’s.

Lost to it now, consumed with a desire he’d never even known he possessed, Iker didn’t want gentle, he wanted hard, he wanted fast, he wanted to pound Sergio until he saw stars, he wanted to fuck Sergio deeper, harder, better than any man has before, he wanted to drive himself in so deep that he got lost and couldn’t ever find a way out. He wanted Sergio to remember this, he wanted Sergio to wish there’d never been another man before him and he wanted Sergio to never want another man afterwards.

This was only about sex, just sex and making Sergio his, making him want him, but with Sergio so tight (and fuck, how was he so tight, tighter than anyone else Iker’d ever had) around him, urging him on, Iker forgot all the points he wanted to prove and just let himself go, let himself revel in this, the hottest, tightest thing he’s ever felt, the sexiest sounds he’s ever fucked out of another person, the deepest and hardest he’s ever been. He slid his hand down to wrap around Sergio’s cock, throbbing and wet, and stroked it, trying to match his thrusts but suddenly Sergio was coming, his muscles clenching even tighter around Iker, spasms sending delicious shockwaves through Iker’s body, and Iker just fucked him through it, fucked Sergio through his orgasm as he cried out, as his arms wrapped so tightly around his neck, as his muscles held Iker in place, and Iker kept fucking him until suddenly he was coming too, harder than he could remember, almost violently, Sergio whispering in his ear: “Come in me. Fuck me. Iker….fuck….Iker…fill me up…need it so bad…fuck….Iker…Iker…Iker….”

In the aftershocks of his orgasm Iker’s mouth found Sergio’s and he kissed him, kissed him like had that night, so long ago, that stupid, drunken, half-forgotten night at a party he hadn’t even wanted to go to, his tongue finding Sergio’s and Iker kissed him as though he’d spent years starving for it, craving it, dreaming about it, and maybe he had. Maybe he always had.


	10. Chapter 10

They lay together, afterwards, sated and still, both of them trying to absorb what had happened, what they’d done, what it might mean, neither having the words just then to express exactly what they felt, not even sure they knew what they felt. Sergio wanted to confess everything to Iker, every painfully embarrassing teenage fantasy, every agonised moment of thwarted hope. He wanted to describe to him the paroxysms of jealousy suffered in silence each time Iker fell in love with another woman, every single one of whom, it had seemed to Sergio, could please Iker infinitely better than he himself, simply by virtue of being born female. He wanted to tell him he had tried his very best not to want him, not to desire him, not to love him. It had all been futile but he’d tried so very hard and even now, he wanted to reassure Iker, comfort him. “I won’t ask any more of you than this,” he wanted to say. “I won’t ever ask for more than you can give. This was enough. I don’t think this means you suddenly love me. I can get by without your love. I’ve managed up to now.”

All of those words would have been true, in their way. But they were not the whole story. They never had been and never would be.

Iker couldn’t even begin to decipher his own thoughts, much less express them to Sergio. How could he explain that for his entire life, he’d thought he was entirely heterosexual, and now he’d found himself in bed with his best friend, was lying there beside his very naked best friend, who looked utterly debauched, fucked out, bruises the shape of Iker’s fingers on his small hips, bite marks the shape of Iker’s teeth on his shoulders, Iker’s come leaking out of the plush pink hole of his perfect ass. Maybe there were words that could describe the maelstrom of emotions he felt but Iker couldn’t think of them. He tried to focus on each one in isolation – shock that this had happened, guilt that he had been unfaithful, fear at what this meant for him and for his life now, the aftershocks of pleasure that were ebbing away but still potent enough to remind him of much he’d wanted this, how much he’d enjoyed it, and a perverse sense of what he could only call relief, relief, that Sergio had wanted him, trusted him, maybe wanted him so badly that now he wouldn’t want other men. Maybe now Sergio was his and he wouldn’t have to worry about those strange men who might take him away, might wish to stake a claim on Sergio’s heart greater than that Iker himself held. But even when he tried to isolate those feelings, separate them out, count them, parse them, examine them like specimens on a table, he couldn’t quite manage to contain them. They bled into each other, guilt merging with pleasure, shock shot through with relief.

Unable to speak, afraid of what he might say, Iker lay there and listened to Sergio’s steady breathing and the hum of the air conditioning, letting himself drift away. They dozed, sliding gradually into dreamless sleep. The muffled laughter of someone passing Sergio’s door in the hotel corridor roused Iker some time after midnight. He came to with a start, unsure of where he was at first, blinking in the dim light until the unrecognisable shapes resolved themselves in a hotel room, a chair, a bedside table, and beside him, a sleeping Sergio. For the briefest of moments Iker wondered what Sergio was doing in his bed and then everything flooded back in a rush, a tidal wave of remembered sensations. Sergio’s legs wrapped around Iker’s waist, urging Iker deeper, begging for more, begging for Iker to fill him up. _Fuck_.

Slowly and carefully Iker eased his way out of the bed. He stood for a moment and stared at Sergio, peacefully sleeping, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the way the moonlight through the partially opened window illuminated the planes of his face, those soft lips that Iker had kissed only hours before.

He couldn’t stay. Leaving Sergio’s hotel room now, so late at night, wouldn’t seem particularly odd, if he was seen. The hotel was full of Uefa dignitaries and footballers and agents and all sorts of related hangers on, and undoubtedly many of them wouldn’t be sleeping at all tonight, would be up drinking and gambling and talking deals and trades. Of the ones that did make it to bed, chances were a fair number wouldn’t do much sleeping either, not if there were girls around, and Iker knew from experience that there would be. If someone caught Iker exiting his teammate’s bedroom, they were unlikely to think anything of it. But the acceptable window in which Iker could be safely seen leaving was small – leave it too late (or rather, too early in the morning), and there would probably be talk.

Moving as quietly as he could, Iker made his way to the bathroom and turned on the light. He looked at himself in the mirror. The man who stared back at him looked just the same as always – his hair was rumpled from Sergio’s roaming hands, his lips were maybe a little redder than usual, from Sergio’s kisses. But there was nothing else, no outward sign of what he’d done. It seemed wrong, almost perverse, that an act such as the one he’d committed left no mark, no warning to the world that he was an changed man, a man who had, in a mere matter of hours, betrayed the woman he loved and the child they were expecting, turned his back on years of being the faithful partner, the loyal family man, and had instead surrendered to an entirely unexpected lust that was more powerful than any he’d experienced before and infinitely more dangerous. The Iker in the mirror looked just like that faithful partner, that loyal family man, but Iker knew that had changed irrevocably now, and perhaps forever. He wasn’t that man anymore, could never be that man again. Surely a change so profound, an experience so intense, should announce itself to the world on Iker’s face, in his eyes. And yet he looked the same as always. He took a moment to consider how he felt. Guilty, yes, of course. How could he not feel guilt? But he was more than a little surprised – and even a little disgusted with himself – to realise that he didn’t feel regret. How could he regret what he’d experienced with Sergio, what he’d felt, that intense rush of pleasure when Sergio took him in his mouth, that powerful stab of fierce arousal when Sergio had begged Iker to fuck him, begged him to come in him, the exhilarating sensation of pushing inside that hot tight body and knowing that Sergio wanted him, needed him, had been longing for just that, just Iker, inside him, claiming him. How could he regret any of that? How could he regret experiencing all of that, sharing it with Sergio? He’d felt so alive. So powerful. He’d felt more fully and completely himself than he had in a long time.  Like he could do anything.

Iker splashed some water on his face and towelled himself dry. He couldn’t stay here, tempting as it was to crawl back between the sheets and let the sound of Sergio’s breathing lull him back to sleep. He turned to leave. And stopped dead.

He stood in the bathroom doorway and stared. Sergio had turned over and lay flat on his back now, the white sheet that had covered him earlier had almost slid onto the floor. He was spread out on the bed like an offering, some pagan sacrifice to appease a vengeful god, and no deity could have failed to appreciate this, Iker thought. He lay there, one arm thrown back over his head, the other resting on his toned stomach, his legs slightly parted. An invitation to sin.

Iker knelt at the bottom of the bed, watching the rise and fall of Sergio’s chest, taking in the way the light from the bathroom threw the sharp jut of Sergio’s perfectly formed hipbones into tantalising relief. Fuck, he was incredible, Iker thought, the strength and power in that body, that body that hours, months, years of dedication had honed into a perfect specimen of muscle and masculinity. Iker placed a careful hand on Sergio’s smooth calf and let his fingers trace their way upwards, to the paradox that was Sergio’s thigh – hard and yet soft, firm and yet so yielding as Iker stroked his way upwards, letting his fingers delve into the tempting gap between those tanned legs. He moved closer, lowered his head, let his tongue follow the trail his fingers had mapped out – starting at Sergio’s calf and licking delicately, moving upwards, slowly, carefully, alive to the moment when Sergio’s breathing grew heavier, became more erratic, to the slight shiver when Iker’s tongue found its way to his upper thigh.

Iker’s right hand moved to hold Sergio in place, resting firmly on his hip, as he mouthed along Sergio’s hipbones, letting himself suck and nip, teeth grazing skin and relishing each muted gasp he drew from Sergio. Only a few hours ago Iker could never have imagined himself doing this, would have reacted with a mixture of bemusement and outright hostility to the notion that he might harbour the secret desire to do just this, just letting himself map the plane of Sergio’s body with his tongue, teeth and touch. He never would have guessed that he wanted this and yet there was no denying it now, he couldn’t suppress this longing now even if he wanted to.

Earlier Iker had wanted it hard, wanted it fast and a little rough, needed to claim Sergio as his own, make him forget all the other men who’d gone before, replace all the memories of all those false idols with his own image. Now he wanted this: Sergio just like this, docile, quiet, sweetly compliant, stretched out before him like a gift, surrendering completely to Iker’s caresses. Iker wouldn’t have believed that Sergio, his hot-headed, impetuous friend and teammate, was capable of this, this utter capitulation to Iker’s desires, that Sergio could simply allow Iker this silent worship of his body. Yet there Sergio was, soft and supple and so stunningly his. Iker ran a hand up Sergio’s smooth legs, parting his thighs. Sergio seemed to instinctively understand that this was what Iker needed, this willing surrender, this silent submission. He let Iker spread his legs, remained perfectly still and quiet as Iker licked and sucked the soft inner skin of his thigh and then carefully, reverently let his mouth glide over Sergio’s achingly hard cock. Sergio whimpered and then was quiet again, allowing Iker to lick and suck at will, refusing to give in to the impulse to thrust, to grab Iker’s head and force him on, to demand more. Iker kept it up, teasing and sucking and taking Sergio deeper, letting him further in every time. He threatened to gag more than once, and Sergio longed to say something, reassure him, tell him he didn’t need to do this, it was far more than Sergio would ever have expected, but Iker’s tongue was highly distracting and Sergio was trying so hard not to make any noise, not to break this magic spell, that all he could do was lie there and let Iker do as he would.

Iker drew back a little and lapped at the tip of Sergio’s cock as he slipped his hand between the defender’s spread thighs. He slid a finger inside and fuck, Sergio was still loose from earlier, still damp from Iker’s come. Lust surged through Iker at the thought, the realisation that Sergio was slick with him, with Iker, ready to be taken again, filled again. Iker’s cock hardened further and Jesus Christ, how was he supposed to resist this, the wet, tight heat of Sergio’s ass, the sharp citrus scent of his skin, the warmth of his body and all that coiled strength, willingly at his disposal. “Fuck, baby,” Iker breathed, unable to prevent himself. “You feel so... _fuck_.” Sergio tried to hold back a moan but it found its way out regardless, a barely-there capitulation, a whispered admission of desire.

Iker’s fingers slipped easily in and out of Sergio as he fumbled around with his left hand for another of those little tubes of lube. Finding one, he ripped it open quickly, coating his cock as best he could, and then lined up. Sergio lay spread out before him, an exhibition in perfect submission, and Iker took a moment to breathe, to take in the magnificent sight before him, before he pushed in, one smooth movement plunging him fully inside. Sergio tensed slightly and gasped as Iker began to thrust and Iker could barely believe how good this was, how right it felt. Sergio was utterly slick with Iker’s come and knowing that it was this that helped to his ease his way was almost frighteningly arousing. Iker pulled out for a moment and ignored Sergio’s murmur of protest, putting his hands on Sergio’s little hips and pulling him down on the bed. He slid his hands around and pulled Sergio’s legs up so that they rested on each shoulder, Iker nestled in between those hard firm thighs, and he slid inside again, setting a rhythm now, deep and slow and so, so good, each thrust drawing another tiny whimper from Sergio’s mouth.

Sergio lay there and let himself surrender to pleasure, to each perfect thrust, to the sensation of Iker’s thick cock inside him, and he’d been fucked before, many times in many different ways but nothing had ever felt like this before, he’d never let another man simply take control of him like this, never let himself surrender like this to another man’s desires and he’d never, ever been fucked so deeply, so thoroughly, so _reverently_.

They stayed like that for a while, sweat beading on their foreheads, glistening on their chests as Iker fucked Sergio deeply, wrapped so tightly in the other man, in the coil of his body, as Sergio lay there and revelled in the sensations Iker created, the cresting waves of pleasure, the slow build of a climax he knew would leave him weak, breathless, ravished. “Baby,” Iker rasped again. “You feel so good. Fuck, how do you feel so good?” Sergio couldn’t reply, didn’t know what to say. He raised a hand and placed it on Iker’s cheek, letting his thumb linger near the corner of Iker’s mouth, and when Iker turned and sucked it inside he gasped and arched his back, Iker so deep in him now, surrounding him, pleasure building and building, and then suddenly he was coming, coming so hard, his legs tightening around Iker as he spurted again and again, and then Iker was coming too, filling him again, and fuck, Sergio wanted to remember that forever, Iker emptying himself deep inside him, knew he’d never forget it, and that nothing else would ever feel so good again.

Iker rested his head against Sergio’s forehead, their mouths aligned but not kissing, both of them panting, breathing in each other’s air. Iker softened inside Sergio but he didn’t want to withdraw yet, wanted to just stay there, held in the almost too tight embrace of Sergio’s body for as long as possible. When his heart had stopped thumping so loudly and his breathing had slowed he let his mouth find Sergio’s and he kissed him, softly, slowly, his tongue seeking out Sergio’s and caressing it. Relishing the taste of Sergio and realising he was already addicted. “I have to go,” he whispered eventually. “It’s late. I can’t stay.” Sergio’s hands stroked Iker’s hair tenderly and he kissed his mouth gently. “I know,” he said softly.

Reluctantly Iker withdrew, his soft cock sliding out and still Sergio moaned for the loss of it. Before he had a chance to change his mind, Iker pulled on his underwear and then his clothes, fingers doing up his shirt haphazardly, struggling to buckle his belt. He stared at Sergio, lying on the bed, his little hole glistening and damp with Iker’s come, his lips swollen. He could get used to that sight, he thought, and it scared him slightly. “Goodnight,” he said, and turned and opened the door, exiting before he’d even fully realised it. Sergio lay there in the silence of the dim hotel room, staring at the closed door, and he didn’t feel abandoned, or rejected. Iker had to go, he understood. Staying was too risky and they’d already played with fire, more than enough for one night. He should get up and shower, he knew. Iker’s come was drying and he’d feel itchy and sticky in the morning. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He couldn’t wash it away, not yet. He wanted to lie there, marked by Iker’s teeth, covered with marks Iker had made, soaked in his come. The thought was almost enough to make him hard again. He had longed for this for what felt like his entire life, yearned for just this, and now Iker had given him so much more than he’d ever really thought was possible. This night was a gift, a blessing, and if this was the only benediction the saint would ever bestow on him, it was enough. It was absolutely enough.


	11. Chapter 11

The sound of his phone ringing insistently woke Sergio the next morning. Bleary eyed and confused, he fumbled for the source of the noise, vaguely wondering who was calling him at this hour. He couldn’t recall what he’d done with it the night before. His hand groped around the floor for the offending phone and his fingers closed around something small and foil-wrapped.

The ringing stopped abruptly and Sergio abandoned his quest for it.

He examined the unused condom from the night before, still pristine in its foil wrapper. “Extra-lubricated,” it said reassuringly. Sergio grinned and threw it away.

  
He tried an experimental roll over and the sheets came with him. Yeah. He definitely should have at least used a damp towel last night, he thought. Going to sleep with Iker’s come drying on his thighs, still leaking from his ass, had seemed important at the time, had seemed romantic even, a way of prolonging their connection, a reminder that it had happened. That Iker had wanted him.

It was still hard to believe, even with the evidence of the act still an itchy, sticky reminder on Sergio’s inner thighs, that it had happened. Sergio had given up hoping long ago, consigned his fantasies that one day Iker would reciprocate his desire to the darkest, quietest part of his heart, resigned himself to never knowing what it would feel like to kiss Iker the way he wanted to, to feel Iker touch him with the heat of raw desire.

But Iker had given him so much more than he’d ever thought possible, and perhaps even more shockingly, he had been the one to instigate it. He’d kept a possessive hand on Sergio’s back on the way to dinner, he’d stroked Sergio’s thigh while Zlatan made insinuations designed to drive him wild with anger. He’d followed Sergio, he’d held him, licked his neck, told him he knew what Sergio wanted, needed. And he’d come to Sergio’s bedroom, with a handful of condoms, three tiny tubes of lube and eyes dark with lust. He’d undressed Sergio, he’d let Sergio suck his cock, and then he’d fucked him, hard and fast and deep, and he’d come in him, wave after wave flooding Sergio with proof that Iker wanted him.

Even when he’d got up, got ready to leave, somehow he’d ended up back on the bed with Sergio, his hands touching him everywhere, fingers and tongue searching out the secret parts of Sergio’s body, learning how to make Sergio quiver and moan, holding Sergio down while he sucked him and then entering him again, perfectly, smoothly, using his own come as lube, and fucking Sergio until Sergio thought it really might be possible to see stars. When he’d left it had been with a kiss, with soft words and a gentle caress.  
But that had been then, in the half-light of the very late night or very early morning, depending on your point of view, and what had seemed easy and perfect and innocent of sin could seem so much darker, so much more difficult, so much more dangerous in the morning.

Iker could wake up in his own bedroom and realise what he had done, that he had sinned, and how might he react?

What kind of response could he expect from Iker now? Sure, when he’d awoken in the early hours of the morning he hadn’t freaked out, hadn’t yelled and panicked and accused Sergio of leading him into temptation. But that didn’t mean it wouldn’t happen now. Sergio had learned that lesson early. Men who were more than willing the night before, men who flirted and teased and persuaded you to suck their cocks on bathroom floors and who seduced you into letting them fuck you in hotel bedrooms could turn into raging, paranoid ogres the next morning. Sergio knew every kind of reaction, every kind of man. He’d had men who told him they weren’t gay, that it was just a mistake, just this once, and it was Sergio’s fault, he was the one to blame. If Sergio were a vainer man than he actually was he’d have developed quite the ego, what with the number of men who claimed to have been leading lives of uninterrupted heterosexuality before they’d had the misfortune to meet him and suddenly develop a craving for cock. There had been men who’d been fine, of course – men who knew what they wanted and enjoyed getting it from Sergio on the strict understanding that it was just about satisfying a need and that there would never be anything more and the next day they’d go back to their wives or girlfriends and get on with their lives. But there had been many more who’d kissed and cajoled and caressed one minute and then yelled and cursed and kicked the next. Men who were always fighting their own wars with who they really were and what they really wanted and when they lost a battle, they’d find a way to make that loss Sergio’s fault.

Which kind of man would Iker be? The one who’d say it was a mistake and should never have happened, that Sergio was a good lay and a nice guy but that was it and let’s face it, it wasn’t like it could ever be anything more than a fuck? The kind of man who’d tell Sergio that he’d been tricked, that Sergio must have done something, got him drunk, drugged him, worked some kind of dark magic on him even, because he wasn’t gay, he didn’t like men, and he certainly hadn’t wanted Sergio?

Sergio could accept it if Iker told him it had been a mistake, that it would never happen again. He could even accept it if Iker told him that it didn’t mean anything, that friendship was all they could ever have. But he didn’t know whether he could still respect Iker if Iker tried to pretend that it had only happened at all because Sergio had lead him astray.

  
Sergio was a romantic, it was true, but he was also a realist. Some things were unattainable, no matter how badly you wanted them or how hard you tried to make yourself worthy of them. Some things in life you simply weren’t meant to have, and sooner or later you just needed to come to terms with that. Last night Sergio’s years of tortured love had been rewarded.

The precious gift the saint had bestowed upon him could as easily be turned into a punishment if Sergio wasn’t careful, didn’t pay attention. His reward for years of unwavering devotion had been the feel of Iker moving inside him, filling him more completely and perfectly than any man before him, the heady taste of Iker’s fevered kisses, the touch of Iker’s hands roaming over Sergio’s flesh with a possessiveness Sergio would never have imagined him capable of, Iker’s mouth wrapped around Sergio’s aching cock. Sergio had had a lot of sex – was famous for it, in fact – but it had felt like that before. It had never felt so profoundly right before. He’d never trusted any one – male or female – enough before to just lie there and trust them to take care of him, to let them do what they wanted to his body and have faith that it would be perfect, exactly right, just entirely what he wanted.

He tried to rationalise it in his mind. He’d fucked other footballers before, but never anyone he knew like he knew Iker. Like Iker knew him. Maybe spending years and years in front of Iker, helping him to defend the goal, to defend their team, listening to Iker’s orders and watching him, watching him all the time, on the pitch, on the training ground, in the dressing rooms, at team dinners and meetings and parties – Sergio knew every quirk of the eyebrow, every smile and frown, he knew what every inflection and change of tone meant, understood every change of pose, every alteration of mood. He knew every line on Iker’s face, had watched it form over the years. Maybe – it was hard to believe but it was possible – maybe Iker knew Sergio too. Maybe Iker knew every tattoo, every soft, smooth expanse of flesh, every hitch of breath and glint in the eye. Maybe that was why it had so felt so good, so utterly right. Sergio had always instinctively felt he could please Iker if only Iker would give him the chance. Maybe Iker instinctively knew how to please him too.

  
But no matter how good it had been, how right it had felt, no matter how many prayers of earnest gratitude it inspired Sergio to say, it could become a burden. This blessing could become a curse, an endless source of pain and misery if Sergio allowed it to. He needed to prepare himself now for the inevitable rejection. He had had a taste of the pleasure he and Iker could give to each other, he’d experienced the heights their bodies could reach together. Now he had to recognise that that one night would be all he would ever have.

Iker would never love him, not in the way Sergio wanted him to, had wanted him to for years. Iker was in love with a woman who was beautiful and smart and who was going to be the mother of the child Sergio knew Iker longed for. Sergio could offer Iker nothing in comparison to that, nothing that would ever be even close to enough, and even if he could, Iker wouldn’t want it now.

And it wasn’t so bad, really, to have Iker’s friendship, and Iker’s trust, and it was enough to know that he had been right – they really were spectacular together, would’ve been incredible together, if another world, and Sergio could let it go and simply be Iker’ s teammate. His friend.

Besides, he had his own girlfriend now, and he loved her. He was sure he did. They could have their own family. And that would be enough. More than enough – it would be far more than Sergio deserved.

The best case scenario, Sergio decided, was that Iker would tell him, kindly and but in that firm, not-to-be-argued-with captain’s voice of his, that he had enjoyed himself very much and Sergio was a good person, but that it had been a mistake – an enjoyable mistake but a mistake nonetheless, and now they would return to their previous relationship, without regrets and without any intention to ever repeat their error.

It would hurt. Sergio knew that. It would hurt, his heart would ache, there would be times when he would cry himself to sleep over everything he couldn’t have, but he would get used to it. Eventually it would be nothing more than a bittersweet memory, and Iker would still be his friend. He would be happy again. It would be just a little harder for a while.

What was a little pain, in the grand scheme of things?  He'd got to have Iker, all of Iker, for one night, which was more than he'd ever thought possible and more than he deserved.  He had no right to hope for more.  So what if it hurt, if it felt like his heart was breaking all over again?  It was a price he'd always been prepared to pay and he'd go on paying it now, now when he knew how good it could be and how much he could love Iker, if Iker would only let him, if things could only have been different.  Wishing things were different wouldn't make them so.  Sergio had learned that lesson well.

Sergio had made himself get over Iker once before.  He would do it again.

____________________________________________________________________________________________

The hotel wake up call he half-remembered arranging at the reception desk the day before woke Iker at 8:00 am precisely. He answered it in a daze and then lay back on the huge pillows. It was strange – he wouldn’t have ever imagined that he was the kind of person who could be unfaithful to the woman he loved with his friend and then calmly go to sleep, yet that was what he had done.

When he’d left Sergio’s room the night before, leaving quickly before he’d had the chance to change his mind, certain his guilt was written in neon across his face, sneaking furtively into his room with relief, he’d foreseen a long and sleepless night ahead of him. He’d pictured himself spending the night tossing and turning beneath the sheets, eventually trying to mute anguished thoughts of guilt and betrayal by drowning them in copious quantities of mini bar whiskey.

It hadn’t been like that at all.

He’d plugged in his phone to charge without turning it back on – a selfish and weak attempt to avoid being reminded that he had a family, a home, a woman who loved him. He’d had a quick, lukewarm shower to wash away the scent of Sergio’s body, brushed his teeth to chase away the taste of Sergio’s kisses. And then he slipped between the cool Egyptian cotton sheets and sleep had overwhelmed him almost immediately.

Now he lay there, the early morning sunlight filtering softly through the thick hotel curtains, bathing the room in a gentle glow.

He felt calmer this morning than he had in Sergio’s bedroom earlier. Then, he hadn’t been able to absorb the sheer weight of the emotions that overwhelmed him. He hadn’t been able to tell guilt and fear from shock and relief and something that was perilously close to happiness.

What he had done couldn’t be changed, and it didn’t matter whether he wished it could be otherwise – wishing wouldn’t change it, and anyway, he wasn’t sure he would choose to undo it if he could. He couldn’t wish he’d never felt Sergio clenched hot and tight around him, urging him deeper, begging for more. He couldn’t wish he’d never kissed him, never held him, never buried himself deep inside him and just let himself, for once, be entirely free of any concern other than bringing pleasure to Sergio and to himself.

Iker got out of bed and reached for his phone, turning it on with a sigh. He couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t pretend he didn’t have obligations outside of his room and his memories of what he’d done last night.

She’d left him a voicemail – just a short message, brief and cheerful – “Hope you’re having fun, don’t let Sergio lead you astray, talk tomorrow”. Later on a text message to wish him good night, and a stream of kisses. Nothing else was important – texts from his agent, one from his publicist…nothing that couldn’t wait.

“Let Sergio lead you astray,” he thought, and grimaced. He couldn’t blame Sergio for what had happened the night before. Iker had gone after him, driven half-wild with jealousy and tormented notions of Sergio meeting up with Falcao before Iker found him, and then Iker had touched him, caressed him, kissed him. And then Iker had bought lube and condoms and turned up in Sergio’s bedroom to throw himself before him like a penitent sinner seeking the kind of absolution only Sergio could provide. As if the sin they’d committed together – their shared act of infidelity – was some form of religious devotion, some perverse consolation for everything Iker had suffered for the past year and for every act of love and loyalty Sergio had demonstrated in that time.

He could never blame Sergio for his willing surrender to Iker’s caresses, his capitulation to Iker’s desires. Not that it was one-way – Sergio had wanted him just as badly, had seemed to crave Iker’s touch, had begged for him.

Iker loved Sergio. He knew this. Sergio was his friend, his closest and most trusted teammate, who had stood by him without question throughout the most difficult time in his life.

But Iker had a partner. A baby on the way. The perfect family, all planned and waiting for him.

Where did Sergio fit into that?

Putting his phone down, Iker made his way to the en suite and brushed his teeth. Examining himself in the mirror, he marvelled again that there was no sign of his indiscretion. Amazing that you could change your life completely in the course of a few short hours and remain physically the same.

He took a shower, letting the hot water rinse away the dried flakes of lube and Sergio’s semen that still clung to his skin.

What was he supposed to do now? What did other men do when they cheated on their girlfriends or wives? Iker had seen it happen often enough over the years, and most of the time, in his experience, the wives and girlfriends were willing to look the other way, as long as the men were discreet, didn’t flaunt their indiscretions, never let the fling threaten their families. Sometimes there was no forgiveness, and marriages broke up or girlfriends moved out. But it wasn’t insurmountable, wasn’t an unforgivable sin, this Iker had ample evidence of.

The problem was Iker had never thought he was like those men, his teammates, his friends, who’d leave a nightclub with some hot young thing and then go home to their loving wife and present them with a placatory diamond bracelet.

Iker had prided himself on being loyal, loving, faithful. It wasn’t enough to be San Iker on the pitch – it had to be the reality too. He had to be the perfect family man. Couldn’t let himself falter.

He wished he could talk to someone about this, confess what he’d done, ask for advice. Problem was, if it had been anyone else, it was Sergio he’d have confided in. Sergio wouldn’t have judged, would have understood, would have been concerned for Iker. Would have wanted to help.

“Seems to me you’ve got three options,” said the voice of Imaginary Guti. “Tell her and hope she forgives you, say nothing and stay away from him from now on, or say nothing and keep seeing him.”

“It’s not that simple,” Iker argued.

Iker wondered what it said about him that he was starting to enter into debates with an imaginary version of his former teammate and captain. Maybe he was having a nervous breakdown. It wouldn’t entirely surprise him, after the year he’d had, and now he was fucking his best friend and arguing about it with a version of Guti that was entirely in his own mind.

“Yes it is,” Imaginary Guti replied,” and Iker could picture him so clearly in his mind, the dismissive flick of his hair, the half-bored look in his eyes. Amazing that he could conjure him up like this, in his mind, and be so sure that this was exactly what Guti would say and how he would look saying it. “It’s exactly that simple. Don’t tell her and stop, or don’t tell her and keep seeing him.”

“That’s not three options,” Iker snapped, forgetting he was only debating himself. “You said I could tell her and she might forgive me.”

“You’re not going to do that, _hombre_ ” Imaginary Guti said pityingly. “No one’s that much of a saint, not even San Iker.”

“I could tell her,” Iker said stubbornly. “Tell her I made a mistake, beg forgiveness, and she loves me, I think she’d forgive me, she knows how hard it’s been for me, she’d understand…”

Imaginary Guti laughed harshly. “Yeah, because really it’s not your fault, you fucked Sergio because you were just so depressed, poor little Iker, so sad that he’s not playing that the second he gets a chance he fucks his friend senseless. You really think she’d understand that? You didn’t fuck Sergio because anything’s been hard for you, Iker. Well. Apart from the obvious.” Imaginary Guti quirked an eyebrow and Iker fantasised about smashing his face until he remembered again that this Guti was simply a construct his brain had invented. Fuck. He probably needed therapy.

“You fucked him because you wanted him. Because you’ve been wanting to get that boy underneath you since he was a kid and you stuck your tongue down his throat in that alcove at Raul’s party. Christ. You should just be glad it’s not Raul you’re imagining right now, sunshine.”

Was it true? Had Iker secretly always wanted Sergio? He wanted to dispute it, to argue the point, because honestly, he had been so sincerely convinced until last night that he wasn’t attracted to men, had only ever wanted women. But he had kissed Sergio, years ago. And he’d been so irrationally angry and jealous and hurt to hear that Sergio had been with other men.

“Do you really feel bad about it, Iker? Do you really, truly regret it?”

“It’s not about how bad I feel,” Iker said.

“ Yes it is. Trust me on this, _tio_. That’s all it’s ever about with adultery. How bad do you really feel about it? Bad enough to say yeah, I made a mistake, and I’ll never do it again? Because that’s all you really need to answer. You can tell her, and hope she’ll forgive you, but she’ll always know that you did it and that you might do it again. Or you can say nothing and get on with your life but you’ll know that you did it. You’ll know you’re not the man she thinks you are. You can live with that, plenty of people do, but you need to know no one’s ever going to forgive you. You’ve just got to put up with it. If you feel bad about it, really bad, and you know you’re never going to do it again – well, then you only have to decide if you want to tell her and hope she forgives you, or if you can live with the secret.”

Iker knew what the right thing to do was. Tell Sergio that they’d make a mistake. It had felt good, yes – better than good, amazing, perfect, better than anything else Iker had ever had – but it was a mistake. He’d apologise, hope that Sergio would forgive him, hope he’d understand, tell Sergio he wanted them to be friends, that he’d hate to lose him, but that he’d understand if Sergio felt otherwise. If Sergio blamed him. Was angry. Resented him.

And then he’d go home to Madrid and he’d go home to his beautiful girlfriend and their beautiful home and he’d kiss her and tell her he loved her and he’d put his hands on her stomach to feel their baby kick and they’d joke about how he would certainly be a footballer and it would be exactly as it was in all that ways that mattered, and she would never have to know that one night in Geneva, San Iker had been less than saintly, and Iker would never, ever tell.


	12. Chapter 12

Sergio finally peeled himself from the sticky, lube and cum-stained sheets and headed to the bathroom to relieve himself and then allowed himself the indulgence of a very long and very hot shower, washing away the dried semen and the smell of sex with expensive hotel-provided Jo Malone shower gel and his own shampoo and conditioner. Afterwards he brushed his teeth and stared at himself in the mirror, at the faint circles under his eyes, at the evidence of a night spent putting his hotel bed to uses decidedly more active than sleeping. While he shaved and moisturised and sprayed himself in designer cologne, he tried hard to think of anything other than the night before, anything other than Iker. He’d thought about it enough, had made up his mind, knew what would happen next.

He was prepared for Iker’s embarrassed smile and haunted eyes, for his conciliatory words, his apologies and his guilty looks and his insistence that this would never happen again. There was no point in dwelling on it any further. It would drive him crazy, and it would change nothing. There was no miraculous solution waiting to be found, if only Sergio would think hard enough. He took his time dressing, spending longer choosing between one pair of designer jeans and another – distressed? The paler blue or the dark? And his shirt – white shirt, or grey t-shirt, or maybe the leopard print sweater? He settled on blue denim and a grey t-shirt simply because it seemed the easiest choice.

He was fastening his watch on his wrist when he remembered someone had been trying to call him earlier. It took ten minutes of searching before he finally located his phone, underneath the bed where it had somehow ended up last night, maybe accidentally kicked there by himself or Iker when their minds were on other, more immediate matters. He had six missed calls, all from Jesus, and eight text messages, also all from Jesus, and all variations on the theme of “What the fuck is going on?” He knew Jesus would be worried about him, would be wondering whether he’d talked to Iker, whether they’d sorted things out. And he deserved to have his mind set at rest, to be reassured that Sergio was fine, that he wasn’t in his hotel room crying and getting drunk on mini bar gin and eating those little bags of M & Ms that he was always tempted by.

Sergio knew he needed to call his friend, or at least text, but he couldn’t bring himself to actually do it. What would he say? He couldn’t possibly tell Jesus the truth – his friend was tolerant and understanding and endlessly patient, had overlooked Sergio’s dalliances with men who were husbands and fathers and fiances. Jesus forgave Sergio every one night stand with men who’d sworn to be faithful to one woman forever, every quickie with men who had children and wives and maybe even mistresses, or sometimes boyfriends. But Sergio didn’t think Jesus would forgive him if he knew that Sergio had slept with Iker.

Iker. San Iker. The man who was loyalty personified, the one club, one country, one woman man. Mr Fidelity, in bed with the boy from Andalusia who changed bed partners like most people changed clothes. Jesus would be horrified, appalled that his best friend had surrendered to temptation and the pull of a secret passion that had burned for so long that Sergio barely remembered life before it. Jesus wouldn’t care that Sergio hadn’t started it, he wouldn’t care that Iker had followed him, caressed him, kissed him. He wouldn’t care that Iker had gone to Sergio’s room, that he’d kissed and sucked and fucked. “You should have said no,” he would say. “It doesn’t matter if he wanted it, if he was begging for it – he can’t have been thinking clearly. He’s straight, Sergio. He’s going to have a baby. He’s _San Iker_ , for God's sake.”

Jesus would believe that if Sergio truly loved Iker, if he was really Iker’s friend, he’d have saved him from making this mistake. And there was no way Jesus would see it as anything other than a mistake. Worse than that. A betrayal. To Jesus, Iker’s infidelity would be akin to an act of the grossest treason. No one is infallible, even saints can fall, and it was up to Sergio to keep Iker from sin. “Lead him not into temptation,”Guti had whispered to him once, at a team barbecue, when Iker was drunk and Sergio was staring at him, at the way his jeans were slightly too loose and his shirt had ridden up, exposing a flat expanse of perfect pale skin and Sergio had begun to move towards him, intending what, he didn’t know, but intending something – maybe to throw a friendly arm around his teammate and perhaps steal a fleeting caress. Guti had been joking, teasing Sergio with the fact that he was aware of his crush, that he found it amusing and more than a touch pathetic. Guti would never really have believed Sergio capable of tempting Iker – Sergio had never believed it himself – and yet it had happened. And Jesus would never forgive him. Even if Jesus was inclined to be understanding, Sergio knew he wouldn’t tell him. Last night was just for Iker and Sergio, a precious, perfect night that Sergio knew he would treasure forever, a memory he would relive over and over, his whole life. Sergio would be ninety years old and still remembering the night San Iker filled him and fucked him and kissed him and loved him. No one else needed to know – sharing the secret would taint it, tarnish the memory, expose what had felt beautiful and pure and even sacred to ridicule, to anger, to condemnation.

He sighed and began to tap out a reply to Jesus’s most recent text. “Don’t worry,” he wrote. “Talked to Iker. He’s fine. Will call you tomorrow.”

Only seconds later his phone pinged with his friend’s response. “I knew he’d understand. Glad you’re alright. CALL ME.”

Sergio swallowed. If only Jesus knew the truth. If only Sergio could tell him and know Jesus would understand it. But he never would, he’d never accept it, and so Sergio would never tell. He’d keep his and Iker’s secret forever. He’d taken as long as he possibly could showering and getting dressed, and soon he’d have to face Iker. Eat breakfast with him, make small talk over fresh fruit salad and Greek yoghurt and toast. Pretend last night had never happened. He could do it. He’d done it before, lots of times, with different men in different hotels. Premier League footballers in lavish hotel rooms in grey English cities where it always seemed to be raining and all Sergio really remembered from the encounters was whether his partner had made a fuss afterwards. Ill-advised trysts with opponents in grim, antiquated stadiums in small Spanish towns where the men whose cocks he sucked or who sucked his wanted him more because of the club he represented than for who he was himself, and who afterwards would remember that deep down they hated him, resented him, envied him. If pushed Sergio could probably provide a list of every man he’d ever been with, and how they’d reacted afterwards – the ones who blamed and swore and accused, the ones who finished, cleaned up, and left with barely a word and then the next morning, or next time they met, acted like it had never happened. The ones who sat quietly opposite him at dinners and official events as if they’d never moaned his name in pleasure, and the ones who spent matches kicking and clawing and hissing insults to make up for the kissing and stroking and whispers of desire that would follow afterwards.Sergio was confident he’d had more than enough practice to sit opposite virtually any former lover and eat a meal and smile and joke and chat about nothing of any importance.

But this was Iker. And Iker had always been the exception.

Sergio tried to distract himself from thoughts of the meal ahead by packing his suitcase. Then taking everything out and repacking it again, more neatly. Iker wouldn’t be like some of those other men, he told himself. Iker was his friend. Iker cared about him. Yes, Iker had left his bed in the middle of the night but he’d had a good reason, and he’d kissed him, he’d spoken kindly to him. Iker wouldn’t turn on him, wouldn’t blame him, wouldn’t accuse him of some kind of treachery. He did believe this, he truly did.

He just wasn’t ready to test his faith, yet.

___________________________________________

Iker folded his white dress shirt and placed it neatly in his suitcase. Well. There was nothing more to be done. He’d taken an extra long shower – washing his hair twice, and even using conditioner, which he almost never did, despite having been the frequent recipient of Guti’s many lectures on importance of good hair care. He’d shaved particularly carefully, he’d chosen his outfit with special care (so it was just jeans and a t shirt – that didn’t mean he couldn’t take his time choosing which shirt he preferred). He’d folded the rest of his clothes and packed them tidily in his case and then decided he hadn’t done a good enough job and had taken everything out and repacked.

He knew he was avoiding thinking about Sergio, and maybe even worse, avoiding thinking about the fact that there were missed calls on his phone that he really should return. He couldn’t just sit here, avoiding his real life, refusing to face up to the reality of what he’d done, putting off the inevitable conversation where he’d have to pretend that he was still the same man he’d been the morning before, that he was still the same person who’d got on that plane. That he wouldn’t be returning completely and irrevocably changed, with his whole view of the world, of his place in it, of the person he was, entirely turned on its head.

Sighing, he picked up his phone and swiftly typed a quick text. “Sorry I missed your call last night. Very busy here – lots of big egos needing attention. Can’t wait to see you tonight. XXX” Lying by text was a coward’s way out but maybe it would make it easier when he was lying face to face. Fuck, Iker, he thought to himself. This isn’t you. This isn’t…right. But then nothing had been right for months. Everything had changed, everything was harder than before. Maybe what had happened with Sergio was some kind of symptom. Maybe he really was having a nervous breakdown – sleeping with Sergio, having conversations with a Guti who somehow managed to be infuriatingly, unbearably, right about things Iker would prefer not to contemplate.

His phone vibrated. Iker stared at the flashing little icon that indicated a text. He almost didn’t want to read it, didn’t want to know, didn’t want to see loving words and perfect trust when he’d betrayed that faith. He made himself read. “Was one of those big egos Sergio’s? :) Hope you had fun. Missed you. X” Iker stared at the words without seeing them, letting wave after wave of guilt and self-disgust wash over him, letting himself really feel it.  He deserved to feel it.  He deserved to feel even worse.

A sudden knock on the door startled him. On autopilot he got up to answer it. He opened the door and stared. Sergio was standing there, his expression anxious, eyes full of something Iker would perhaps have called fear but he had never known his friend to be frightened. Not Sergio, who believed himself invincible, who thought he could take on the world, who’d face down a bull given half the chance.

“Hi,” Sergio said softly, his voice shaking a little, but smiling brightly regardless. Iker felt a sudden burst of tenderness for the younger man, for the way he confronted life head on, even when he was obviously nervous, even when he must be expecting the worst from Iker. Although, Iker realised, he wasn’t sure what “the worst” would mean to Sergio.

Maybe Sergio was afraid Iker would confess love, beg him for sex again, want to start an affair. Maybe Sergio was here planning to let Iker down gently, tell him he’d had his fun but it didn’t mean anything, he hoped they could still be friends but Iker had to understand that he wasn’t the kind of man Sergio could ever want more than a quick fuck from. The thought hurt more than Iker would’ve imagined.

“Hi,” Iker said, trying to read his fate in the set of Sergio’s expression, not realising Sergio was doing the same, each of them staring at the other, trying to detect sign, a hint as to what the other was thinking, trying to work out how to react. Iker stepped aside. “Come in,” he said, looking away from Sergio’s searching gaze, not wanting to be the focus of that anxious attention.

Sergio followed him inside and automatically closed the door behind him. He stood, running one hand nervously through his own hair.

Iker realised belatedly that he had had no reason to stand aside, to let Sergio in. He was dressed, he was packed, he was ready to go down to breakfast and face the trials of a buffet with Zlatan making pointed remarks about what he’d been doing last night and John Terry trying to tell him another story about how to get someone sent off. Iker could never follow those stories. They always seemed to involve sleeping with someone’s wife. Or pretending to. Iker was never clear on which. Maybe he should ask Sergio, he might have some idea. He opened his mouth to ask the question and then shut it again. Not an appropriate question to ask in the circumstances, he thought. God, he was losing his mind. He was sure of it.

“Iker,” Sergio said suddenly. “Are you…is it everything alright?”

Iker turned to look at him. Sergio looked lost, scared. Iker was powerfully reminded of Sergio, after they’d lost the semi-final to Bayern Munich and Sergio had collapsed on the pitch, overwhelmed with the pain of a loss that Iker thought only another athlete could truly understand, and Iker had rushed to his side, raised him, cradled him in his arms, whispered soothing nonsense in his ear as Sergio had wept bitterly, blamed himself, given himself over to grief. He’d seen Sergio in pain before, after defeats, after break ups with women whose names Iker no longer remembered, and probably he’d seen Sergio after break ups with men he’d never known about. He’d held Sergio and joked with him, comforted him, pressed consoling kisses against his hair, got drunk with him to get over matches and girls and, it seemed likely, guys too. Yet somehow Iker didn’t think he’d ever seen Sergio quite like this before. This was something new. Sergio looked, Iker thought, like an accused man waiting to hear the jury’s verdict, like a man whose entire life was hanging in the balance.

Iker longed to take that expression off Sergio’s face, soothe away the worry lines, caress away the pain. It was what he’d always done before, instinctively, and he couldn’t help himself, he moved towards him now, put a hand on his shoulder. Sergio raised his hand and placed it on top of Iker’s, gripping it tightly. “It’s fine, Sergio,” Iker said reassuringly, smiling.

“Iker…” Sergio said, and Iker watched that perfect mouth form his name and _fuck_ , he wanted to kiss that mouth, feel those lips on his again, wanted to slide his tongue into Sergio’s mouth and kiss him until Sergio wasn’t thinking about fear and loss anymore, he wanted to kiss him until all Sergio could think of was Iker and all he could feel was Iker and all he wanted was Iker. (Sergio could have told Iker, if Iker had only asked, that he thought of Iker all the time, that his mind was full of him, that he dreamt of him, that his brain had focussed obsessively on Iker for years now, and was showing no signs of stopping.)

“About last night,” Sergio said hesitantly. Stop, Iker wanted to say. Don’t talk about it. Don’t analyse it. “I know…I know what it was,” Sergio continued, so softly, his eyes dark with emotion. “I know it didn’t…I know that it didn’t mean anything.”

Iker couldn’t speak. He wanted to contradict Sergio, tell him he was wrong, it meant everything but…but it would have been a lie, wouldn’t it? Or, if not a lie, it would have been a cruel truth. Nothing could happen between them, last night was a mistake never to be repeated. To say otherwise, to give Sergio the idea that there could be other nights, other times, that they could somehow have more than just one night together – it would be unfair, it would be painful, it would be unforgiveable.

“I know it was a mistake,” Sergio said. “I don’t want you to think that I’ve…got any ideas. I won’t ever tell, Iker. I’ll never tell.” He looked so unlike himself, standing there, pale with nerves, eyes dark with feelings Iker couldn’t name, his body tense. Even like this, Iker thought, even standing there, terrified of Iker’s reaction, Sergio was still the bravest person he knew.

“Sergio,” Iker managed to croak out. “Sergio, don’t…”

“I know it was wrong, Iker,” Sergio went on, talking over Iker, his voice getting stronger now. “I know I should’ve stopped it, I know you weren’t thinking clearly, you’re not…you’re not like me. You don’t like men. I know that. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for what I did…”

Iker cleared his throat. His hand squeezed Sergio’s shoulder and moved up to lightly grip his neck. With his thumb he stroked the tender skin there and the defender shuddered. Their eyes met and Iker couldn’t help himself, he raised his other arm and gently rested his hand on Sergio’s waist, let his fingers rub little circles there. Iker knew he needed to let go, to move away. He was so close to Sergio that it would only take the slightest movement to press their lips together, and God, Iker wanted to, he wanted to feel Sergio’s mouth open for him again, his tongue hungrily meeting Iker’s own. He wanted to stop Sergio talking, stop him saying all these things that weren’t true, or maybe had once been true but weren’t any longer, maybe never would be again. He wanted to kiss away Sergio’s sadness, wanted to throw him on the bed and cover his body with Iker’s own, make Sergio forget everything he’d said.

He was suddenly aware that Sergio was staring at him, eyes wide in confusion, holding himself entirely still, so quiet it was as though he was holding his breath. “Iker…”Sergio whispered, and it took every ounce of Iker’s self-control not to push him against the wall and kiss him. Instead he leaned in and rested his forehead against Sergio’s. “Don’t say those things,” Iker said hoarsely. “Don’t blame yourself. Last night…last night wasn’t your fault. It was…” He broke off. What could he say? That last night had been incredible, amazing, that everything had changed and yet nothing could change. Suddenly Sergio’s arms were around him, one hand cradling Iker’s head, and Sergio pressed a gentle kiss to Iker’s forehead. “It’s all going to be fine, Iker,” he said. “You’re my friend. We’ll go home and it will be like nothing ever happened.”

Iker nodded. There was a frighteningly large part of him that wanted to contradict Sergio, tell him he couldn’t pretend it had never happened, couldn’t go back to normal, couldn’t pretend that fucking Sergio, being inside him, hadn’t felt absolutely perfect, completely right. But Sergio was right. They would go home and act like everything was just as it had been before. There was no real alternative. Iker could pretend. It would go back to normal.

“Don’t blame yourself,” Iker repeated. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Sergio shrugged noncommittally, clearly unconvinced.

Again that intense desire to kiss him overwhelmed Iker. With effort, he stepped back and let his hand drop from Sergio’s shoulder, shrugging away the defender’s touch. “It wasn’t your fault,” Iker said again, more firmly. “It was mine. I started it. I went looking for you, I kissed you. I started it.”

“No,” Sergio protested. “It was…you got confused…all those things Zlatan was saying, and I should never have told you about me, or any of it, I should’ve kept quiet, and then there was Falcao and…it all just got out of control, it wasn’t your fault, Iker, please…”

“No, Sergio!” Iker half-yelled, frustrated. “No. This was my fault. I know what I did. I – fuck, Sergio, I cheated. I’ve never done that before. This isn’t me. What I did…I don’t do that.”

Sergio looked miserable. “I know,” he whispered. “I know you don’t, Iker.”

“But I did it,” Iker said. “I did it. You have to let me accept responsibility for it.”

Sergio’s silence somehow managed to convey his reluctance to accept it.

“I’ve never cheated, Sergio,” Iker said again. “I was proud of that. I…thought I was better than the other guys you read about, I thought I was different.”

“San Iker,” Sergio murmured.

“Some saint,” Iker scoffed. “Look at me now.”

“Everyone makes mistakes, Iker,” Sergio said comfortingly. “Even you.” “

If she knew,” Iker said, panic and fear rising up. “If she knew she’d…she’d leave me, I’d never see the baby…”

“She won’t know, Iker,” Sergio insisted. “I promise. No one will ever know.”

“It’s different for you, I suppose,” Iker said, “You’ve done this before.”

“I have a girlfriend too, Iker,” Sergio said coldly.

“I know,” Iker replied, though honestly, he’d forgotten. “I know that Sergio. I just…I didn’t think of that last night.”

“Neither did I,” Sergio admitted. “Or not much. I…would have done it anyway.”

“Obviously so would I,” Iker conceded.

“Well then,” Sergio said, as thought that settled the subject.

It didn’t, though, Iker thought. Sergio had a girlfriend, but Sergio had always had girlfriends, and apparently he’d still slept with men. Lots of men. Without telling Iker. “You never told me,” Iker said, suddenly inexplicably furious. “You never told me about you. Why? You didn’t trust me? You thought I’d drop you? That I’d hate you? Is that you think of me? I thought we were friends. I thought we were close. I thought you trusted me!”

“We are friends, Iker,” Sergio said pleadingly. “I trust you. I do, I swear, it was just…fuck…Iker, I wanted to…sometimes I thought you guessed…I just…I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t tell you.”

“Why not?” Iker demanded, all his rage and jealousy and pain rushing to the fore again, reminding him that Sergio had lied to him for years, never telling him the truth, sleeping with other men, other players. “Why couldn’t you tell me?”

How could Sergio make Iker understand? How could he confess to him that he hadn’t told him because he was so frightened of losing him – not because he thought Iker would hate him for wanting men, but because if he told Iker then Iker would know. Iker would see, he’d understand exactly how Sergio felt about him. That Sergio had been stupidly in love with him for years. And Iker would pity him. And take his friendship away. “Iker,” he said, his voice quiet and sad. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It wasn’t because I didn’t trust you, it was just….”

“Does Fernando know?” Iker interrupted, the question coming, to Sergio’s mind, completely out of nowhere. “Does he? He does, doesn’t he? Of course he does, he must know, the two of you are…”

Sergio was honestly confused – what did Fernando have to do with any of this? It didn’t matter anyway, he wasn’t going to go through everything with Iker, let him interrogate him about every teammate, every friend, every casual acquaintance, and tell him who knew what and when. It wouldn’t help either of them. “You’re right,” he said. “I should have told you.”

Iker rubbed his eyes. “Fuck, Sergio,” he said, all his anger gone. “I’m sorry. It’s just…I wouldn’t have judged you. You could have trusted me.”

Sergio nodded sadly. “Last night was a mistake,” he said. “I know that. I just wanted you to know that I won’t make a fuss, I won’t tell anyone. We can forget it happened.” A lie – Sergio would never forget, would be reliving that night forever, but what was the use of admitting it, it would change nothing.

“I can’t forget it,” Iker said bitterly. “I cheated. I slept with my best friend. Fuck, I’m just like…like Ryan Giggs.”

“Iker,” Sergio said seriously. “I’m not married to your brother.”

Against his will, Iker grinned. Sergio returned the smile. “We should go for breakfast,” he said. “Manuela’s probably looking for us.”

Iker smiled wanly. “You’re right. And all the good pastries will be gone.”

“Can’t have that,” Sergio said. “I have to take pictures to make Marcelo jealous.”

“Let’s go then,” Iker replied. “Can’t have you missing that opportunity.”

Sergio turned and opened the door. Iker came up behind him and rested a hand on his arm. “Sergio,” he murmured softly. “I’m sorry.” For a moment Sergio allowed himself to lean back against Iker’s firm chest, let himself breathe in Iker’s scent, let himself remember Iker’s mouth against his. “I’m sorry too,” he whispered. And then he pulled away.

Iker followed him out and closed the door behind him. Together they walked towards the lift.

“Sergio,” Iker said, pressing the button. “I’m really glad you’re not married to my brother.” Sergio smiled again, as the doors opened. The smile dropped from his face.

Standing before them was a tall dark figure with a satisfied smirk on his face. “Gentlemen,” he said delightedly. Zlatan.


	13. Chapter 13

Iker cursed his luck. Out of everyone in the entire hotel, it had to be Zlatan. Of course. Who else?

“Hello Zlatan,” Sergio said coolly. Reluctantly Iker stepped inside the lift, Sergio following close behind. The doors glided smoothly shut.

“Aren’t you going to wish me a good morning, Iker?” the Swede asked, grinning widely. “Or,” he said, his voice dropping lower, “maybe you didn’t get much sleep last night.” He winked at Sergio, who blushed.

Iker swallowed his annoyance. “I slept very well, thank you,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Zlatan said. “But you seem very grumpy this morning, Iker. Did you get out of the wrong bed this morning, perhaps?”

Christ, Iker thought. Couldn’t the man just give it a rest? Did he think of nothing other than ways to infuriate Iker? “I’m fine,” Iker snapped.

“What about you, Ramos?” Zlatan asked, drinking in the sight of Sergio, who shifted uncomfortably under the Swede’s lascivious gaze. Iker looked at Sergio and saw what Zlatan saw: the tight jeans that encased powerful thighs and accentuated the perfect curve of the defender’s ass, the t-shirt that emphasised a slender waist and toned, tanned arms. Iker couldn’t help but wonder how it was that he had spent years with Sergio, training alongside him, sitting beside him on journeys all over the world, even sharing rooms with him, and hadn’t ever let himself acknowledge just how attractive Sergio was. He could hardly blame Zlatan for openly appreciating what Iker had deliberately ignored. He couldn’t blame him, and yet, he did. Zlatan’s obvious desire, his unconcealed appraisal of Sergio’s body, infuriated Iker.

“I’m great, Zlatan,” Sergio said, with a false brightness that somehow stung Iker as sharply as a rebuke. Sergio was _not_ great, and Iker was the cause of it, and surely this was as clear to Zlatan as it was to Iker.

Zlatan wrapped an arm around Sergio’s shoulders and pulled him closer. “You certainly look great,” he purred, and Iker was saved from the public ignominy of assaulting one of the top footballers in the world only by the doors sliding open and the sudden jarring sound of loud conversations being conducted in various languages. Sergio gracefully removed himself from Zlatan’s embrace and left the lift, waiting for Iker to follow.

“I just want a quick word with Ibra,” Iker said calmly. “Can you find our table, Sergio?”

Sergio looked worried and as though he was about to protest, but he nodded and, casting one last anxious glance at Iker and the Swede, he left.

Iker turned his attention to Zlatan, who stood staring at him with the air of one about to indulge a particularly precocious toddler. “So much for being a gentleman,” Iker hissed through clenched teeth.

Zlatan gave a nonchalant shrug. “I told you what was going to happen but you would not accept it,” he said. “The rules are therefore off, I think.”

Iker took a deep breath and reminded himself that they were in a public place, surrounded by their fellow professionals, and it simply wouldn’t do to take a swing at a Ballon d’Or nominee in full view of Michel Platini and what looked like half the staff of _Mundo Deportivo_ and _Marca_. “You told me,” he said quietly, dreading that they might be overheard, “that you were going to spend the night with _my_ boyfr..” He cut himself off. Sergio was not his anything, and even if Zlatan had formed that impression, it would be unfair to Sergio to let him continue with it. “With Sergio,” he corrected. “You tried, and he turned you down. So why don’t you just take the rejection like a man and give it a rest, ok?”

Zlatan just looked even more amused. “I don’t think so, Casillas,” he smirked. “I am enjoying myself. Why would I “give it a rest”, as you say, when I am having fun?"

Iker was pale with outrage and his hands ached from being clenched in a tight fist. He longed to slap the insufferable smirk from the Swede’s face and not from the first time he bitterly resented the other man’s superior height. He felt like a truculent child being reprimanded by an exasperated elder. “Maybe you’re having fun,” he said, keeping his voice low and calm. “But I’m not and neither is Sergio. You need to back off and leave us alone.”

Zlatan laughed. “I can see _you’re_ not having fun, Casillas. But Ramos is the kind of guy who appreciates a sense of humour, I think.”

Iker moved in closer and lowered his voice to a whisper. His eyes were bright with anger, his entire body tensed in suppressed rage. “Do you think that Sergio enjoyed your little performance last night?” he hissed. “Do you think he found it funny, you making a spectacle out of him, out of me? Mocking him?”

For the briefest of moments, Zlatan looked perturbed, and then his usual self-confidence came roaring back. “I did not mock him,” he said haughtily. “I made some amusing quips but that is all. I would not mock him, Casillas. I have already informed you that I find him attractive. I would not make him a figure of fun. Perhaps it is you who mocks him.”

Iker might have been distracted by Zlatan’s stilted, curiously formal Spanish in other circumstances but now he simply stared, momentarily thrown off balance. Was Zlatan right? Did Iker interpret Zlatan’s jokes as insults, as mocking jokes, because that was what he really thought of Sergio? No. Iker knew he was not wrong. He never would make jokes like that, would never mock Sergio, only wanted to protect the defender from people like Zlatan, from people like those journalists who laughed about his red cards and his sexual appetite, those fans who mocked him when he tried to speak English and joked about his taste in clothes. Iker would never, ever humiliate Sergio like that. Tease him, of course, but never publicly shame him. And Zlatan had made Sergio feel ashamed last night. But not Zlatan alone. The realisation hit Iker all over again, just as it had the night before. He had made Sergio feel ashamed. Not intentionally – never that – but the result was the same. He had hurt him. Was still hurting him. “I don’t mock him,” Iker protested.

“No?” Zlatan said, quirking an eyebrow. “You will not even admit he is your lover. Just now you would not even say he was your boyfriend. I admit I have been surprised by your behaviour, Casillas. I thought we spoke as gentlemen. I thought that you would appreciate my good manners when I told you that I wanted to have your boy. You were prepared to claim him last night, after all, but now today…it is different. Never mind. When Ramos gets tired of you and comes to me, I will make sure it is obvious to everyone that he is mine.”

Iker tried to speak but the words caught in his throat. He wanted to furiously deny Zlatan’s words, wanted to assure him that he was a gentleman and Zlatan was not – no gentleman would behave as Zlatan had – wanted to tell him that Sergio was his, that he had no difficulty in claiming him, that Zlatan would never, ever know what it felt like to have Sergio beneath him, writhing in pleasure, fingernails digging into his back and urging him on, begging for more, for deeper, for harder, for everything. He couldn’t say any of it. He swallowed. “You…” he began weakly, but Zlatan cut him off. “I am tired of this conversation, Casillas,” the Swede announced. “I am hungry.” Turning on his heels, he stalked away, leaving Iker staring after him.

For a long moment Iker stood, alone, collecting his thoughts. “That really could’ve gone better,” said the teasing voice of Imaginary Guti. “I thought you were going to really put him in his place, you know – get all macho and tell him to back off and keep his filthy paws off your man. Instead that was more “oh please mighty Zlatan, could I possibly beg you not to keep trying to steal my boyfriend, if it wouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience?”

“Shut up,” Iker hissed to himself. “You’re not real, any anyway, what was I supposed to do? Punch him here, in a room full of journalists and John Terry? Tell him to forget about fucking my…about fucking Sergio? I tried my best!”

“Your best?” said Imaginary Guti pityingly. “That was really your best? Wow. Your confidence has taken more of a knock than I thought. The Iker I knew would have just told him to back the fuck off, stay away from Sergio, wank himself stupid over him in his hotel room if he had to, but forget all about ever having the real thing. And then kissed Sergio in front of him.”

“That is a total lie,” Iker replied, enraged. “I would never have done that.”

“Yes,” Imaginary Guti replied. “But don’t you wish you had?”

Iker had no response.

_________________________________________________

Sergio found the table easily enough. It was close to where they’d been the night before, but this time their breakfast companions had changed. This morning, in place of Falcao, Zlatan, Cavani and Kondogbia there was an empty table with place cards that announced that this morning, Iker Casillas and Sergio Ramos would be eating with John Terry, Eden Hazard, Marco Reus, and Manuel Neuer. Sergio let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. “Well,” he thought to himself. “It could be worse. At least you’ve never slept with any of these guys.”  Not something he'd ever really expected to have to consider, when he was with Iker.  It had been easier, he thought, half-regretfully, when Iker had been oblivious and Sergio never had to worry about former fuck buddies or wannabe lovers causing problems.  

He wondered what was going on between Iker and Zlatan, and what Iker wanted to say to the Swede. He wasn’t sure what approach Iker could try that would work on Zlatan – last night the Swede had seemed determined to cause trouble, to provoke Iker just for the fun of it. He couldn’t really imagine what Iker could say that would change Zlatan’s mind, if Zlatan was still in the same frame of mind, and from the way he’d behaved in the lift, he was. Sergio shuddered involuntarily at the memory of Zlatan’s arm around him, Zlatan leering at him, his desire painfully obvious. Yes, really this breakfast table could have been much worse.

Still. Neuer.

Sergio wasn’t usually the kind of person who held grudges. Insults and injuries on the football pitch were forgotten the moment the match was over, or, if they were particularly bad, once Sergio had had a shower and a chance to cool down. Arguments on the training ground were put to rest over a beer and rows with friends or lovers tended to blow over almost as soon as they erupted. Even journalists who consistently slated him or mocked him were forgiven with time. Of course there were some writers, some footballers, that Sergio disliked, or just had little in common with, but even in those cases, it was rare that it ever actually caused problems. He and Pique managed to co-operate, after all.

He didn’t hold grudges, but he was proud, and he was far more easily hurt than most people ever suspected. He accepted the jokes and taunts from fans of both his own and of rival teams and tried hard to appear as though he never even noticed them, using them instead as a spur to drive him on, to try harder to show them he was better than they thought, to prove them wrong. It was one thing being mocked online, or in newspaper columns, or even being portrayed, week in, week out as a bumbling idiot on Catalan television. All of that was par for the course, and Sergio was far from the only footballer to receive such treatment, even if that didn’t make it any less hurtful. It was quite another to have a fellow professional, a man who played for the club that was a bitter rival and a national team that sought to usurp Spain’s position, a man who was being hailed on a regular basis as perhaps the greatest goalkeeper in the world (wrong, in Sergio’s opinion, because to Sergio the greatest goalkeeper in the world always had and always would be Iker, and to suggest otherwise was akin to blasphemy), publicly take to social media to mock and deride him.

Sergio’s pride had been more than pricked – it had been assaulted. The wound still throbbed, even months later, and while Sergio had got his own say online afterwards, the sting had not diminished. Sergio didn’t care how many people said Neuer was the best in the world. Maybe in the objective views of those other people (because Sergio could admit he was horribly biased), that was true. But Neuer would never be half the man Iker was, and he’d proved it as far as Sergio was concerned by humiliating him in public. Making him a laughing stock.

So no, really, Neuer was never going to make the top fifty people Sergio would relish sitting down to eat breakfast with. Still, he told himself, it couldn’t be any worse than dinner the night before. At least Neuer was unlikely to litter his conversation with _double entendres_ and try to irritate Iker into reacting by suggesting the names of men Sergio might have slept with. Against the wall there was a vast buffet table laden with fresh fruit, seemingly infinite varieties of cereals and yoghurts, a selection of pastries, cheese and cold meats, bread rolls in every shape, size and flavour, fruit juices and flavoured waters, coffee and herbal teas. Sergio distracted himself by browsing the options available, nodding and smiling at various other players as they arrived. While selecting some diced melon and grapes he almost literally bumped into Balotelli, and spent ten minutes listening to him enthuse about the breakfast selection and then his latest scores on Fifa.

Returning to his table, he saw that Iker had arrived and was sitting with Reus on one side and an empty chair on the other. He was perusing the menu of hot dishes available to order while Reus seemed to be tweeting or texting on his phone. There was no sign of Neuer or either of the Chelsea players yet. Sergio sat down beside Iker and returned the goalkeeper’s tentative smile. Iker looked pale, he thought. He wondered what had happened with Zlatan.

“That looks good,” Iker said, approvingly surveying Sergio’s fresh fruit, yoghurt and wholegrain bread roll.

“Hmm,” Sergio replied, leaning over to read Iker’s menu. “Thinking about eggs?”

“Maybe an omelette,” Iker said.

“I might join you,” Sergio said, pleased that they were being so normal. No one listening would think anything amiss, he was sure. Reus looked up from his phone to wish Sergio a polite good morning and ask how he was, and Sergio equally politely replied and said he hoped Reus was enjoying himself. The three men were the middle of perfectly polite and boring conversation about the weather, the hotel, and the quality of the food the night before when a hand clapped down on Sergio’s shoulder, jolting his spoon out of his hand.

“Ramos,” said the owner of the hand. It was Terry. Half-choking on his yoghurt, Sergio turned to smile a good morning while Iker eyed the Englishman’s hand on Sergio’s shoulder through narrowed eyes. People, Iker thought, really needed to stop touching Sergio all the time. It was unnecessary. It was disruptive. It was rude.

The English defender sat down beside Sergio and picked up the menu, loudly reviewing the choices and proclaiming that what he really fancied was “a proper English fry up.” Iker and Sergio had heard of this particular British obsession, described with various mixtures of revulsion or guilty longing from lots of different teammates over the years – Fernando had been disgusted by it when he’d first gone to Liverpool, Sergio remembered, but he’d developed more of an appreciation of it as time went on. Terry complained about the absence of this English breakfast but said, with the air of one determined to bravely suffer a great inconvenience, that he’d make do with sausages and scrambled eggs. Eden Hazard sat down beside Terry, carrying a tray with muesli, an apple and a glass of orange juice that he almost spilled when Terry clapped him heartily on the back as he sat down. Sergio tried to follow what was being said between them, whispering to Iker that Terry seemed really worried about sausages and whether Hazard was getting any. “Hmm,” Iker replied disapprovingly, hoping that Terry wasn’t using “sausage” as a euphemism.

A waiter took Terry’s order for sausages and eggs. Reus asked for scrambled eggs and Iker and Sergio ordered omelettes. Hazard was stubborn in his refusal to give in to Terry’s insistence that he should order sausages. They were making small talk about their respective teams’ upcoming matches when Neuer arrived, bearing a tray laden with fruit, bread rolls and a selection of cold meat. He sat down in between Reus and Terry and grinned broadly. “I’m sorry I’m late,” he said, not sounding apologetic at all. “I was talking to Buffon.”

Sergio looked down at the table and focussed on his melon segments. What did Neuer want everyone to say, he wondered? Well done, you talked to Gigi Buffon? Big deal. Sergio could walk right over to Buffon’s table and talk to him right now, and he was pretty sure he’d get a warmer welcome from him than Manuel Neuer.   He was pretty sure syphilis would get a warmer welcome than Manuel Neuer.  Though maybe he was just projecting.  Still, Iker talked to Buffon all the time but he didn’t go around announcing it. Glancing around the table, he saw that no one looked very impressed anyway. “Oh he’s here is he?” Terry said, chewing some bread. “Haven’t bumped into him yet. Great keeper, Gigi. ‘Course, we’ve got the best in the world at Chelsea, haven’t we Eden?” he grinned, digging Hazard in the side with his elbow. Hazard coughed and spluttered an inaudible response through a mouthful of orange juice.

“I think I’d have to disagree with that,” Neuer drawled. “I think Casillas here might have a thing or two to say too.”

He would, Sergio thought, spearing a piece of melon with his fork more viciously than necessary. But Iker’s far too classy to say so.

Iker smiled thinly. “It’s all a matter of opinion,” he shrugged. “I think Cech is an excellent goalkeeper.”

“I suppose we’re all really only as good as our defenders,” Neuer replied.

“Then Cech’s definitely the best in the world,” Terry joked, and winked at Reus.

Iker glanced at Sergio. The defender’s face was tinged pink and he was staring at his bowl of fruit as though it might suddenly sprout legs and move. Why on earth was Sergio blushing, he wondered? And why wasn’t he joining in the jokes? His good-humoured friend was always the first to join in. Wait – Neuer had made that stupid joke at Sergio’s expense last year. Iker remembered how outraged he’d been at the time, how everyone had talked about it in the dressing room and Sergio had pretended that he wasn’t bothered, that he didn’t care, except he was and he did, and Iker had known it. The younger man was much more sensitive than people realised, and Iker knew that he’d felt utterly humiliated, a laughing stock. And now here was Neuer cracking jokes and even though Iker suspected he wasn’t thinking about Sergio at all, there was no doubt in Iker’s mind that Sergio thought they were all aimed at him. Iker felt instantly annoyed. Sergio had been through enough over the last couple of days, the last thing he deserved was Neuer making him feel bad.

“I’ve got every confidence in my defence,” Iker said smoothly.

Sergio shot him a quick look that managed to look so grateful and so utterly sorrowful that Iker only felt angrier. It was strange, he thought, how often Sergio, who was so strong and brave and proud, brought out Iker’s protective instinct. Maybe it was because Iker knew Sergio’s secret insecurities, the nightmares that kept him awake at night.

The waiter arrived with their various hot breakfasts, and the next few minutes were dominated by Terry insisting that it was impossible to get really good sausages outside of Britain while Neuer and Reus insisted equally vehemently that German sausages were the best in the world. Hazard, apparently quite used to Terry’s lectures on the superiority of British pork products, ate his breakfast in seemingly contented silence, broken only to agree with Reus that brotwurst was delicious.

Neuer, Iker noticed, as he ate his omelette, was looking at Sergio rather more frequently than he looked at any of the others. He was talking about sausages to Terry but he kept furtively glancing over at Sergio, who quietly ate his own omelette and seemed determined to have no opinion whatsoever on where the best kind of sausage could be found (though Iker knew for a fact he would argue strongly for chorizo). Iker wasn’t sure what to make of Neuer’s apparent fascination with Sergio. He didn’t think it was likely to be fuelled by lust – well, he hoped it wasn’t. Iker wasn’t sure he could deal with another prospective lover turning up. Zlatan was more than he could handle.

“What do you think, Ramos?” Neuer asked suddenly, staring intently at the defender. Sergio looked up, startled. “Which is better – German or British sausage?” Iker watched Neuer and tried to assess whether the question really was innocent, or whether there was a Zlatan-esque double meaning there. If Neuer was trying to somehow suggest something about Sergio’s sexual leanings, or if he was trying to insult him in any way – well. Iker wouldn’t be responsible for his actions.

“I don’t get to try either very often,” Sergio said quietly. “But I like chorizo.”

“Obvious and predictable, I suppose,” Neuer snorted.

“Well that’s me isn’t,” Sergio said. “Obvious.”

Maybe he meant it as a joke, maybe he didn’t, but Iker was struck again by an intense desire to protect Sergio. He wanted more than anything to just take him away from here, take him somewhere quiet where no one would disturb them and just…no. He had to stop that train of thought. It led to places he wasn’t allowed to go.

Neuer didn’t seem to know how to respond either. He said nothing.

“That’s what all you Spanish lot love isn’t it,” Terry said affably, munching on a mouthful of eggs. “Torres is the same. And Mata. Love that chorizo stuff. Doesn’t talk that much though, Nando. Not like you, Ramos. You’re a chatty fella really aren’t you, most of the time? Mata talks. Very clever, he is. Thinks highly of you two, you know,” he went on, indicating Iker and Sergio with a wave of his fork. “’Course Torres is a big fan of yours, Ramos. Very close, aren’t you? Luiz says he’s always skyping you.”

Sergio seemed pleased at the change of topic, and happy to have the chance to discuss his friends. He smiled warmly at Terry and, in careful, hesitant English, he told him how much he liked Mata and Fernando, and how much he’d missed Torres when he first went to England. Iker ate his omelette and tried to ignore the little twist in his stomach at the mention of Torres, and how apparently even John Terry knew how much he cared about Sergio. Skyping each other. Iker knew that Sergio and Torres talked often – how else would Sergio always know what was going on with him and Mata? So why did the thought of Sergio and Fernando, in separate hotel rooms in separate countries, using Skype to talk face to face, maybe for hours at a time, suddenly seem so unsettling?

Last night, too, the thought had almost immediately occurred to him that Fernando might have been one of the players Sergio had been with. He’d seemed an obvious suspect, and maybe it was odd how quickly Fernando’s name came to mind once Sergio had told him that he liked men. He remembered that incredible sensation when, pressed tight against Sergio’s back, he’d realised with that perfect, pure clarity that he’d only ever experienced before on the pitch that he was what Sergio wanted, not Falcao, not Zlatan, not Torres. Why had Torres come to mind again? Yet he’d been so sure, so certain that he was right. That Torres couldn’t please Sergio like he could. That it was not Torres Sergio fantasised about. And yet that conviction seemed to have vanished, and now there was no denying it: the thought of Torres was disturbing.

It made no sense. He liked Fernando. They were friendly, if not especially close. But he liked him. He’d never even considered whether not liking Torres was even a possibility. He supposed, in truth, that he’d just assumed he liked Fernando, because really, why wouldn’t he?

Iker remembered a conversation with Xavi in South Africa. The end of a training session, and Sergio had spent most of it roughhousing with Fernando, the two of them rolling about like puppies. It had vaguely irritated Iker in a way he hadn’t understood, and he remembered attributing his bad mood to the heat and the usual stresses of a tournament. Xavi had been annoyed too, but that wasn’t unusual – he never had much time for messing around at training, always took everything seriously, and Sergio’s youthful exuberance and larger-than-life personality frustrated Xavi even at the best of times. He had never quite understood how Iker had become increasingly close to the young Andalusian and often expressed incredulity at what he saw as Iker’s indulgence of the defender’s hedonistic streak.

“You need to have a word with him,” Xavi had said, nodding to where Sergio and Fernando were huddled together, whispering and laughing. The sight had done nothing to improve Iker’s temper.

“I’m not his keeper,” Iker had said.

“He’ll do what you say,” Xavi had countered, and Iker had shrugged a half-hearted acknowledgement that he, as captain and as Sergio’s club teammate and friend, held some sway over the defender. “I’ll talk to him,” Iker had said.

“Make sure you do,” Xavi had replied, annoyed. “You know the way he is, what he’s like. He’s got Torres playing with fire.” Iker had looked at his friend, puzzled. “What do you mean?” he’d asked. “You know,” Xavi had said. “Ramos and how he is. The things he does. He’s…well, he’s just...made of sex, isn’t he?”

Iker had been offended on Sergio’s behalf. He’d resented what he’d seen as the implication that Sergio, whose reputation as a pleasure-seeker and serial womaniser was well-established, would be a bad influence on Torres, and would encourage the happily married striker to join him on the prowl for attractive young women willing to distract rich footballers from their obligations for a few hours. Now, Iker wondered whether he’d misread the comment entirely. Perhaps Xavi had meant that Sergio himself would seduce Torres into infidelity. Maybe Xavi had guessed that Sergio’s proclivities didn’t lean all one way. Iker felt a flare of anger at the thought that his friend might have suspected and never mentioned it to him. At the time he’d huffed that Sergio was a professional, that Barcelona players weren’t the only ones committed to football, and afterwards he’d taken Sergio aside and told him he needed to tone down the play-fighting and teasing. Sergio hadn’t been pleased, he’d argued back, but ultimately he’d obeyed, as he always did.

Funny, though, that Iker was only now recalling that Sergio had accused him of disliking Torres. He’d told Sergio that was a ridiculous accusation and at the time he’d believed it, because who didn’t like Torres? He was quiet and good-natured and a devoted family man, who usually worked hard at training and sure, he was a little highly strung, but Iker had yet to meet the striker who wasn’t, so he’d never have held that against him. They had a lot in common, both born Madrilenos who had grown up and fulfilled their fantasies of playing for the clubs they had loved since childhood. Both of them were committed to their families and to the friends they’d had since they were kids. Yet for some reason that Iker had never fathomed, they never really grew close. Torres would never have confided his feelings about his prolonged period of poor form in England to Iker, would never have told him how it felt, being the butt of a long-running joke, sitting on a bench match after match , half hoping and half terrified of getting the chance to go on. Now that Iker was in a somewhat similar situation, he’d never have dreamed of entrusting Torres with his own agonies, would never have told him how it felt to watch a man that Iker knew he was, at his best, superior to get held up as having always been the better keeper, listen as his own fans jeered his name, watch as his career was eviscerated night after night on evening chat shows. They both talked to Sergio, though. Sergio, Iker mused, was the repository of all the secrets they’d never have thought to share with each other.

Iker thought about all the times over the years that he’d watched the striker casually throw a possessive arm around Sergio’s neck, or take him by the hand to lead him away to a private corner where secrets would be shared. He thought of sitting on buses and planes and trains without Sergio beside him, as was always the case when they were with their club, because instead Sergio was with Fernando, the two of them sharing headphones and whispering. He thought about Torres running long fingers through Sergio’s hair and kissing his cheek and drawing smiles and caresses from the younger man just by virtue of being Fernando Torres. And he remembered how, every time, he’d feel the faintest prickle of unease. For years he’d thought he was just grumpier with the national team, that he was just feeling the pressure of holding together the Barcelona and Madrid factions, that his irritation was because he was worried that those critics whose knives were always sharpened and ready to use on Sergio would sweep into action at anything that looked too much like frivolity, a disregard for the importance of representing the team, a lack of understanding of what was demanded as one of the few non-Barcelona representatives there. Iker was starting to recognise that none of that had been true at all.

He looked at Sergio, whose eyes were shining, who was smiling as he told Terry and Hazard a story about some escapade or other he and Torres had got up to years ago at a Spain training camp, his entire face suffused with happiness at the memory, and something in Iker's chest tightened, ached, throbbed.

No, Iker did not like Fernando Torres. He was only just beginning to understand why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies - I know not much happens in this chapter, it's really just Iker working some things out...hope you can bear with me!


	14. Chapter 14

Sergio finished telling Hazard and Terry the story of how, one evening after a training session with the national team, he and Fernando had got locked in a storage room, and were stuck there for almost two hours before finally Reina had noticed they were missing and had come in search of them. He smiled as he recounted their relief at being found and how when they’d got back to the hotel, Xavi had been furious and had lectured them both on their irresponsibility, so much so that Torres had been close to tears with shame at having been so careless and guilt at being so unprofessional. “Xavi’s very strict,” Sergio informed the Chelsea players. “He’s not really big on fun.”

“That’s not fair,” Iker said, feeling the need to stand up for his friend. “He’s just very committed.”

“Exactly,” Sergio nodded agreement. “I’m not saying it’s a bad thing.” He grinned at Iker. “I get into trouble a lot. But luckily I’ve got the captain to back me up when I need it.”

Iker returned Sergio’s smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes and Sergio worried that he’d made a mistake, said something he shouldn’t have done. He hadn’t meant to insult Xavi. He never would – he knew how highly Iker thought of him, and Sergio himself deeply respected him. But then maybe it wasn’t about Xavi – Sergio hadn’t failed to notice that the mention of Fernando had the same effect on Iker’s face as a dark cloud passing across the sun.

For years Sergio had had the vague and uncomfortable feeling that, on some level, probably very deep down, Iker didn’t like Fernando. He had never quite been able to put his finger on it, and couldn’t even begin to guess the cause, but he couldn’t shake the impression that Iker really only tolerated Fernando. Which was fine, of course, because naturally not everyone liked everyone else and being part of a team meant finding a way to get along with people you might not usually want to spend time with. But Fernando was so easy to get on with – quiet and polite most of the time, hardworking, but fun and good company when he let himself relax. And on the face of it, he and Iker had so much in common, not least Sergio himself. Yet although they were always perfectly civil towards each other, friendly and polite, Sergio knew it was really all surface friendship. Scratch the veneer and there was nothing solid there.

Terry and Hazard laughed and agreed they couldn’t picture the Torres they knew, quiet and serious so much of the time, getting locked in a storage room. “I’m a bad influence,” Sergio said, only half-joking, and made a mental note to call Fernando once he got back to Madrid, just to see how his friend was doing. Things weren’t easy for him in England these days.

Reus seemed preoccupied with his phone once again and Neuer was clearly bored by Sergio’s stories because he turned deliberately to Iker and tried to engage him in a conversation about goalkeeping. Sergio poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the table and sipped it. He listened to Terry telling some story about himself and Frank Lampard to Hazard and to Iker and Neuer talk tactics and let his mind drift. It was funny, he thought, that the story that had sprung to mind when Terry had mentioned Torres was the time they’d gotten locked in the storage room. He wondered whether Iker remembered that night, and how angry Xavi had been, how he’d lectured them at length about being unprofessional and irresponsible, how they were acting like kids when there was serious work to be done. Sergio remembered how Fernando’s cheeks had burned red with humiliation and how Sergio had been so angry with Xavi, who didn’t even understand that it had been an accident, and it wasn’t Fernando’s fault anyway. Xavi’s lecture seemed to last hours and eventually Iker had called a halt to it after Xavi flatly accused Sergio of being mostly to blame, of leading Fernando astray. “Torres was more professional before you were called up,” he’d said coldly. “That’s enough,” Iker had said. “Torres is an adult. I’m sure Sergio didn’t have to force him into anything. Is that fair, Torres?” Fernando had nodded and accepted his share of the blame, telling Xavi it wasn’t all Sergio’s fault – in fact, it was Fernando who had closed the door without realising that it automatically locked. Afterwards Iker had knocked on Sergio’s door and they’d sat in his room, drinking Cola Cao while Iker soothed Sergio’s hurt feelings with assurances that Xavi didn’t hate him and didn’t really think he was unprofessional and childish, all the while gently encouraging him to be more careful, take more responsibility.

Iker could never have suspected that Sergio had only been in that storage room to begin with because of him. He’d been doing some extra cooling down exercises after training, alone and humming to himself while, a few feet away, Iker and Xavi were sitting on the pitch, their backs to him, chatting. Iker had started talking about the girl he was seeing. How amazing and special and beautiful she was. How he’d never felt anything like what he felt for her before. How was he already convinced she was the One. The future Mrs Iker Casillas. He knew it. “And you’ll have to be my best man, _hombre_ ,” he said to Xavi. “Because I’m certain about this one.”

He hadn’t been, of course. In fact, that girl was several girls before the girl who’d actually ended up being the One. But neither Sergio nor Iker had known that then, and Iker’s certainty, the rosy glow of his happiness, had made Sergio stop dead in the middle of stretches and struggle not to cry out. Unable to listen to any more, he’d stumbled away and into the nearest private, quiet space, the storage room. He’d leaned against the wall for at least ten minutes, dry heaving, wishing he could vomit because maybe being sick would distract him from the ache in his heart. Iker was in love. Iker was getting married. Xavi would be the best man, and Sergio would have to go to the wedding and watch Iker marry this paragon of beauty and kindness and then Iker would be lost forever and Sergio would have to accept that there was no hope, that he was in love with married man who would probably be sick if he knew that his pathetic stupid little defender longed for him so desperately that it kept him awake at night, wishing and fantasising and hoping.

Eventually Sergio had recovered enough to sit on the floor and give in to the desire to weep. The tears came easily and flowed freely until finally Sergio had sat, alone, quiet, eyes red but dry, and telling himself over and over again that he knew this day would come, that Iker would eventually marry someone who wasn’t him, and it was alright, he would survive it. Nobody really died of a broken heart after all, except in books and in the telenovelas Sergio was not-so-secretly addicted to. Fernando had come looking for him, finding him and assuming at first that Sergio was up to some kind of mischief. When he’d noticed Sergio’s tear-stained face, he’d announced that they needed privacy so Sergio could tell him exactly what was wrong, and had kicked the door closed just as Sergio cried out that the door would lock. Which it did.

Their horror at being locked inside had temporarily distracted Sergio from the cause of his misery and Fernando had forgotten it entirely, too preoccupied with trying to find a way out. In the end they’d wound up having fun, in between dreading the reaction to their stupidity and worrying they wouldn’t be found until morning.

Iker wouldn’t remember any of that, Sergio thought. He had decided only a month later that the girl he’d been so sure of wasn’t the One after all, had promptly ended things with her, and then spent several months insisting that Sergio distract him from his single state by going out to clubs and restaurants and parties with him, and spending evenings at Iker’s house watching football or movies. All of which had been as close to perfect as Sergio allowed himself to dream.

Sergio was sure Iker was, these days, more likely to remember drinking Cola Cao in Sergio’s room and insisting that Xavi didn’t hate him than he was to remember even the name of that girl he’d said he was going to marry. He almost wanted to ask – do you remember that night, do you remember her, do you know why I was even in that storage room in the first place, do you know how much I loved you? Do you know I still love you? Fuck. He still loved him. Of course he did. He loved him, he had always loved him, and it had been so long now and maybe it was time to just accept he always would.

Sergio shook his head as if he could remove the thought from his mind by doing so. He tried to focus instead on what Neuer was saying. It was something about crosses and aerial deliveries and really, Sergio thought, what he really seemed to be saying was “I am the best goalkeeper in the world, and you are all blessed to be here with me, as I share my wisdom.” As if Iker hadn’t proved himself. As if Gigi Buffon wasn’t sitting only metres away. The waiter came to clear their plates and Iker took the opportunity to turn his attention back to Sergio. “Alright, _nene_?” he murmured, the old familiar endearment said so naturally that for a moment Sergio felt bitter resentment at how casually Iker used it, how for years he’d said it without knowing what it meant to Sergio, how Sergio treasured every use of it even as he mourned that it wasn’t meant how he wanted it to be. He nodded and sipped his coffee.

“We should make a getaway,” Iker whispered. “Neuer’s reminded me there’s golf this morning. I don’t want to be stuck with him or Terry for eighteen holes. Or worse – Zlatan.” Sergio dimly recalled that, back when this trip was first planned, and he’d been looking forward to it, excited to have Iker all to himself for a couple of days, he’d noticed the golf and made a mental note to plan a tennis match or something else instead, just for them, and maybe Torres and Mata, if they made it. “We could play tennis,” he suggested, and Iker smiled. “We could,” he agreed. “Or we could go shopping.”

Sergio’s entire face lit up. “Really?” he asked. Sergio loved shopping, for himself and for other people, and he loved nothing more than the chance to shop with Iker and try to persuade him to wear “something that wasn’t designed with your great-grandfather in mind”. Iker always resisted, argued that he’d rather look like an old man than a neon pink peacock, insisted that he looked ridiculous in anything that wasn’t beige, grey, navy, black, or – if he was being particularly daring – perhaps a subtle stripe. “I wear enough neon on the pitch,” he would tell Sergio, recounting all the various colours the club had made him wear over the years, which generally prompted Sergio to wistfully reminisce about his favourite ones (he’d never have the nerve to tell Iker that he had always thought Iker looked particularly sexy in the purple one. Iker’s purple kit had featured in several of Sergio’s more lurid fantasies).

Sometimes, when Iker was feeling particularly indulgent or when he wanted to either atone for having been difficult on the pitch or short-tempered off it, or when Sergio was unhappy because he wasn’t playing well or he’d been the subject of a nastier-than-usual diatribe on a sports show, Iker would suggest a shopping trip and would let Sergio pick out whatever he thought Iker would look good in, and Iker would try on tight designer jeans and shirts in colours and patterns and textures that Iker thought looked ridiculous but Sergio adored. They’d spend hours companionably bickering about each other’s fashion sense and eventually Iker would buy a shirt or two in a colour he wouldn’t usually wear and Sergio would feel like he’d won a special victory. A shopping trip was exactly what they needed now, Iker thought. It was something normal, something they did as friends, and it would let them relax, away from Zlatan and Neuer and any other players who might be thinking about putting a hand on Sergio or looking at him like he was dessert and they were starving. “Yes,” he said, smiling at Sergio’s hopeful expression. “Anywhere you want. I’ll even try on something pink.”

“What’s that?” interrupted Neuer. “You are going to buy something pink, Casillas?” He quirked an eyebrow in amusement.

“Pink, purple, neon green – whatever Sergio decides,” Iker said.

“You’re a brave man,” the German keeper replied, smiling. “Not everyone would take such a risk.”

Sergio narrowed his eyes. “I know what looks good on Iker,” he said icily. “I’m not going to make him look ridiculous.”

Neuer was clearly taken aback, Iker saw. Perhaps the German was oblivious to the effect he had on Sergio; didn’t realise that the Spaniard interpreted every casual remark as a potential insult, examined every smile or tilt of the head for evidence that he was somehow being subtly mocked. Iker knew it was unreasonable to expect a man who knew Sergio mostly by reputation to understand that he was, despite his bravado, a sensitive person, but even so he felt again that stab of irritation towards the German keeper.

“I’m sure you will not,” Neuer said with a smile. “But I can’t imagine Casillas in pink.”

“Maybe you just lack imagination,” Sergio said snippily.

He was getting angry, Iker could tell, the colour rising on his face, his temper heating. Better to break up the conversation before things developed an edge, Iker decided. “We should go,” he said to Sergio. “I think I the guys who are playing golf starting to leave. We should ask about shopping at the reception desk.”

Sergio acquiesced easily, standing up and saying his goodbyes politely to the other men, even, Iker noted approvingly, to Neuer. “He doesn’t like me,” Sergio whispered to Iker as they walked towards the reception. “Neuer. He’s a dick. He makes fun of me.”

“I don’t think he means to,” Iker said reassuringly. “I think maybe you’re reading too much into everything he says.”

“He _obviously_ hates me” Sergio argued. “He thinks I’m stupid and annoying and terrible at football. I know he does.” Iker stopped walking and put a hand on Sergio’s arm, drawing him towards the wall. “Even if he does,” he said softly, stroking Sergio’s arm soothingly. “None of those things are true. You’re not stupid and you’re really good at football, when you concentrate. And you could never be annoying.”

“Everyone thinks I’m annoying,” Sergio pouted, though he said it with less conviction than when he’d earlier asserted that Neuer hated him. Iker stared at that pouting lower lip and briefly imagined sucking it, nipping it, licking it into a smile. Fuck. He needed to get a grip. He needed to stop thinking about Sergio like that. Stop noticing his mouth. His body. His eyes. “Well, everyone thinks I’m grumpy, and you don’t annoy me, so obviously you’re not annoying,” Iker said, drawing a reluctant smile from Sergio. “See? Logic.”

“Hey! Hey, Ramos!” called a voice, interrupting whatever Sergio might have said in response. Sergio and Iker turned, Iker’s hand still resting on Sergio’s arm. Radamel Falcao was striding purposefully across the foyer towards them. “Wait a minute!” he called

. “Hi Radamel,” Sergio said, smiling at the Colombian as he reached them. “Are you going golfing?”

“Oh, yes, I think so,” Falcao nodded. “I think I’m playing with Cavani. You disappeared last night. I was looking for you.”

I bet you were, Iker thought. Hoping you’d get him all to yourself, get him a little drunk, suggest going upstairs. Yeah. I bet you had it all planned out. Well, while you were down here looking for him and hoping he’d turn up, he was with me. He was with me and he was moaning _my_ name, not yours. _Mine._ He felt a rush of satisfaction at the thought.

Sergio flushed guiltily. “Oh,” he replied. “I felt queasy. Maybe something I ate. I went to bed early.”

“You’re feeling better now?” Falcao asked anxiously, eyes flitting down to take in Iker’s hand, still on Sergio’s arm, gripping it lightly but with an unmistakeable possessiveness. Iker saw Falcao notice and knew that it would probably be wise to release his hold but his common sense seemed to have gone out the window where Sergio was concerned and he couldn’t bring himself to let go. He wanted Falcao to leave, to stop looking at Sergio like with that barely concealed eagerness.

“Yes, much better thanks,” Sergio said. “Sorry I didn’t get to talk more.” He was intensely aware of Iker’s grip on him and wished he would let go. Falcao had noticed and it was clearly confusing him, the uncertainty written all over his face. Sergio didn’t think Falcao would suspect it meant there was anything going on between Sergio and Iker – no one Sergio had been with in the past had ever suspected that Iker was gay, his heterosexuality was unquestioned, taken for granted. A couple of guys – not guys that Sergio himself had been involved with, but guys who knew about his tastes and who shared them, had asked about Iker from time to time, with a mix of wistful lust and regret. Sergio had always emphatically assured them that Iker was straight and not only straight, but unapproachable, just in case any of them ever decided to try to change Iker’s mind. Sergio had always been horrified to the point of nausea by the thought of Iker with a man who wasn’t him. But even though Sergio was sure Falcao wouldn’t suspect that only the night before Iker had been fucking Sergio more perfectly than any man had ever done before, he was certainly going to wonder why the goalkeeper was suddenly taking such an obviously proprietary attitude towards his defender.

“Well,” Falcao said, a little hesitantly, glancing at Iker as though he fervently wished he would disappear, “maybe we could talk soon.”

“Sure,” Sergio shrugged. “We’re going shopping but we’ll be back for lunch. Maybe we could have coffee later.”

“No,” Falcao said, again shooting an irritated look at Iker. “I meant…well, I’ll be in Madrid next week, for a couple of days. On my own. I mean….just me. I’m staying in a hotel. It’s for promotional work, some ad campaign I think….anyway, I was just…hoping we could meet up, maybe. If you’re free. For a drink.”

“Oh,” Sergio looked mildly perturbed by Falcao’s discomfort, his awkwardness. Iker wanted to shake him. He’s hitting on you, he wanted to shout. He’s telling you his on his own in a hotel and he’s hoping you’ll offer to come and keep him warm. He is standing here, right in front of me, and he’s practically begging you to suck him. It took a supreme effort of will on Iker’s behalf to remain silent.

“Sure, that’d be good,” Sergio smiled. “Give me a call when you arrive, we can have a beer.”

Falcao looked pleased and a little relieved. He smiled warmly. “Great,” he said. “Well, I’d better go find Cavani. I’ll call you next week.” He leaned in and pressed an emphatic farewell kiss to each of Sergio’s cheeks. “See you later,” he said. He turned to Iker. “Casillas,” he said, more coolly. “Good to see you.” He put out his hand and Iker shook it. “Goodbye,” he said.

The Colombian left in search of Cavani and Sergio shook off Iker’s hold. “I think I need my wallet and a jacket,” he said, heading towards the lift. “You should get yours too. We’ll go to the reception desk then.” Iker shrugged his agreement and they headed for the lift. Hazard was waiting there too, and when one arrived, all three got in together. They were silent as it ascended, Hazard getting out on his floor with a curt nod. They reached their floor and began walking towards their rooms, Sergio lost in his own thoughts, wondering whether Falcao would interrogate him about Iker’s strange and out-of-character behaviour when they next met, and hoping this would be the day he’d persuade Iker to try wearing something bolder than navy. He was so distracted by the idea of dressing Iker in something colourful that he didn’t notice they’d arrived at Iker’s room.

Iker opened his hotel room door and pushed Sergio inside, the younger man giving a little yelp of surprise. “What’s up?” he asked.

“Did you mean that?” Iker asked flatly, voice cold.

“Mean what?” Sergio asked, checking his hair in the mirror.

“About Falcao calling you and going for a beer.”

Sergio turned to meet Iker’s frosty gaze. “Yeah, of course, why not?”

“He doesn’t want to have a beer with you. He wants you to meet him in his hotel and he wants to have sex.”

Sergio considered this. It was, he thought, probably a fairly accurate interpretation. He wasn’t stupid or naïve – he knew what Falcao had been hinting at, and sure, he could understand that perhaps Iker hadn’t liked it. Iker was still getting used to this new reality: the world in which his friend had sex with men. The one in which Iker himself had had sex with a man. Iker, loyal, responsible, sensible Iker, who’d never cheated on his girlfriend or even considered how he’d go about doing so, was entirely unfamiliar with this secret world within football – the world in which ostensibly heterosexual footballers found ways to meet other outwardly straight footballers to satisfy sexual needs they couldn’t publicly admit to. Iker had endured a number of shocks over the last day or so and it was only to be expected that he’d be as appalled by Falcao’s awkward approach as he was by Zlatan’s upfront efforts at seduction. “Well, yeah, probably,” Sergio agreed. “But we can have a beer anyway.”

“So you know he wants to fuck you and you’re still going to have a drink with him?”

Sergio was by now honestly bemused. Why on earth would he not have a drink with a man he liked and who was good company, simply because that man might want to have sex with him? If Sergio was to refuse to have a drink with people who might possibly want to sleep with him, well, at the risk of appearing vain, his list of potential drinking companions would be pretty short. “It’s a drink, not a fuck, Iker,” he said, exasperated.

“He’s suggesting one and hoping for the other!” Iker snapped, getting increasingly angry.

“So what?” Sergio said, unconcerned. He didn’t understand what Iker’s problem was. Iker was getting angrier by the moment. How could Sergio be so oblivious? Didn’t he understand that Iker couldn’t bear it, couldn’t stand being in Madrid and knowing Falcao was there too, having a drink with Sergio, then having another drink, maybe letting his gaze linger a fraction too long, letting a finger lightly stroke Sergio’s wrist, whispering in his ear that he looked so good, so sexy, why didn’t they go upstairs so Falcao could tell him exactly what he’d like to do to him or, better yet, provide a demonstration.

“Yeah,” said the soft voice of Imaginary Guti. “So what, Iker? What exactly is your problem? You think one night with you is going to mean he swears off other men forever? Maybe you’re good, Iker, but you’re not _that_ good. You think your magic cock was going to fuck him into forgetting other guys? Really? All you’re prepared to give him is one night and no matter how good it was he’s not going to live on the memory forever. He’s going to turn to other men again. Get someone else to give him what you won’t. Maybe Falcao, next week. He wants it. You could see it in his eyes, couldn’t you? Bet he’d love to have him like you did last night, on his back with his legs spread, moaning.”

_“Shut up,”_ Iker told himself, turning away from Sergio and rubbing his eyes in frustration. God, he couldn’t take this anymore. Everything was out of control; his entire life was messed up, gone way off course. His career was in freefall, he was conducting conversations with an entirely imaginary version of his former teammate – and a teammate whose advice he would be unlikely to take even if he was actually physically present – he’d cheated on the girlfriend he adored, the mother of his unborn child with the friend and teammate who’d stayed loyal to him despite the fact that everyone looked at him now and only saw a pathetic has been, a joke, a failure. And now he was freaking out at the thought of that friend moving on from what had only been, after all, a one night stand, a mistake, an interruption in the order of their lives. They had had sex, and it had been incredible, but that was all they could ever have, and why couldn’t Iker just stop thinking about, why was he so thrown, so enraged, by the fact that Sergio was already moving on? Moving on was what they both had to do.  Sure, maybe it was a little insulting that Sergio was already lining up his next conquest, but Iker had no right to complain, he could have no expectations here.  Sergio was not his boyfriend, and having sex didn't mean Iker was entitled to any kind of explanation should Sergio choose to go to bed with someone else the next week, or even the next day.

“What’s wrong, Iker?” Sergio asked, sounding a little concerned, coming up behind Iker and tentatively placing a hand on his shoulder. “Are you alright?”

Iker turned around and put his hand on Sergio’s outstretched arm, gripping it. “Tell me you’re not going to meet him,” he demanded. He knew it was unfair, he had no right to say it, but he needed Sergio to say the words, he needed to know that Sergio _couldn’t_ just go to bed with Iker one night and the very next morning, make plans to meet another lover. Surely it hadn’t meant that little to Sergio. Iker could’ve sworn it had; could’ve sworn Sergio had wanted him badly, desired him desperately, cared about him. He thought he _mattered_ to Sergio. He _needed_ to matter to Sergio.

“I can’t,” Sergio replied. “He’s my friend, he’s good company, I don’t see why I can’t have a drink with him.”

“You can’t,” Iker insisted, half pleading, half demanding. “You can’t meet him, have a drink with him. I don’t want you to.”

Sergio looked at Iker, his eyes soft with an emotion Iker couldn’t identify and he hated himself for wanting it to be desire, maybe even something deeper, more dangerous. “Why not, Iker?” he asked gently. “Tell me why not.” Please, Sergio thought desperately, a plea to some deity or saint who might hear his prayer and look kindly on him, please tell me you don’t want me to have a drink with him because you want me to be with you, because you want me to yours. Please. And fuck, it was stupid and pathetic, it was ridiculous and it was unworthy of him, because Iker didn’t want Sergio like that, didn’t love him, never had and never would, and this was nothing more than a confused and insecure Iker trying to make sure that he wouldn’t lose Sergio’s friendship, trying to cling on to him because he was scared that what had happened between them the night before would ruin their relationship. But only say the right words, Sergio thought, only say you want me, you need me, you care about me, and I’ll give you anything you want, make you any promise.

“Because he wants to fuck you!” Iker snapped, hot with anger.

“That’s not a reason, Iker.” Sergio swallowed the lump in this throat. Of course Iker hadn’t been going to say anything about his own feelings for Sergio, about wanting Sergio, and needing Sergio to want him. Of course not. Because it was only Sergio who had those feelings, Iker had never shared them.

Iker’s face was red with anger and confusion and he thought he was mostly angry with himself, at his inability to make Sergio understand, make him realise that Iker couldn’t face this, couldn’t think about Sergio with anyone else. “Yes it is!” he cried in frustration. “You can’t fuck me and then turn around and be with him, like it meant nothing to you. You can’t do that, Sergio.”

“You think it meant nothing to me?” Sergio whispered, stunned at the accusation.

“Tell me you won’t fuck him!” Iker demanded, ignoring the question, only needing to hear Sergio make that promise.

“Tell me why not!” Sergio shouted back.

Iker tightened his hold on Sergio’s arm and pulled him in, his free hand reaching for Sergio’s head. He pressed their lips together, kissing Sergio forcefully, his right hand tightening in Sergio’s hair, his left hand moving to the younger man’s waist, pulling him closer. For a second or two Sergio didn’t react, shocked into stillness by the mere fact that Iker was kissing him, and then he moaned and parted his lips to allow Iker’s tongue access, returning the kiss passionately, almost wild with it. His arms wound around Iker’s neck and he sighed as Iker sucked on his bottom lip and nipped it lightly, making him shiver. Iker pushed Sergio against the wall, kissed his way along his jaw, nipping the tender flesh and then soothing it better with his hot tongue, his left hand roaming underneath Sergio’s tight t-shirt and stroking the soft skin there. He moved in closer, grinding against Sergio’s denim-clad thigh and the defender parted his legs and revelled in the heat of Iker’s hard dick pressing against him, the shudders of pleasure Iker drew out of him as one hand teased a nipple to hardness and the other opened the buttons of his fly. “Iker,” he whimpered, and Iker murmured acknowledgement before his tongue claimed Sergio’s mouth again, and Sergio could do nothing but surrender to the force of his kiss. “This,” Iker whispered, kissing and sucking his way up Sergio’s throat, “this is why not. This, how this makes you feel. I know he can’t make you feel this good. I know this what you need. None of them can make you feel like this. I know it, baby. I know you.”

Sergio shuddered at the words, the truth of them impossible to deny, the way his body reacted to Iker’s touches, his hungry kisses impossible to ignore, every secret desire he’d ever had confessed with every shiver, ever helpless whimper, every intake of breath. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the feel of Iker's hand stroking its way into his too-tight boxer shorts, on the heat of Iker's cock hard against him, the smell of Iker's shampoo and the taste of Iker's mouth, all the power and strength of the goalkeeper's lithe body focussed on Sergio, on coaxing little cries of pleasure, little shudders of desire from him, overwhelming him with sensation. Iker inhaled the heady scent of Sergio’s expensive cologne mingled and nuzzled his neck before kissing him again, sucking on his lower lip, teasing him with his tongue. He was grinding against Sergio, growing harder by the moment, the delicious friction spurring him on. “This is why,” he repeated. “How I make you feel. Say it. Say you won’t go to him.”

Sergio’s eyes flew open and he tried to focus, to ignore the shivers of pleasure Iker was drawing out of him. There was something wrong here, he thought. Iker was making this all about Sergio, what Iker made Sergio feel and what Sergio wanted, and somehow Iker seemed to know, to understand, that what Sergio craved was Iker. But he wasn’t saying anything about what _he_ wanted. Sergio’s body was betraying every shameful moment of tormented lust he’d ever suffered over Iker, but there was no answering confession from the older man. Sergio’s carefully concealed desires were an open book to the goalkeeper now, every page graphically illustrated and already known by heart, but Iker was still a mystery to Sergio. Iker had revealed almost nothing of himself – nothing but the need to make sure that Sergio was bound to him, would not leave him, would remain entirely in thrall to him. With absolutely no hint of reciprocity. Sergio was to remain Iker’s, but Iker wasn’t Sergio’s. Did Iker even want him? Did he care about Sergio at all? Sergio removed his arms from Iker’s neck and feebly tried to push Iker away. The goalkeeper didn’t seem to notice; his kisses grew more heated as Sergio weakly shoved at Iker’s chest. Sergio had never imagined any scenario in which he would ever have tried to stop Iker from kissing him but now, with effort, he pushed him away. “Stop,” he whispered, softly and first and then more confidently. “Stop it.”

Face flushed and eyes dark with arousal, Iker stepped back. He looked confused, a little dazed. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Why did you do that?” Sergio demanded.

The question obviously baffled Iker. He stared. “Didn’t you want me to?” he asked. His head was clouded with desire, his half-hard cock strained against the constraints of his jeans, he could barely focus on Sergio’s words, couldn’t understand why they weren’t still pressed together, why he wasn’t undoing Sergio’s jeans and moving him towards the bed.

“That’s not the point,” Sergio said. “Why did you do it?”

Iker was looking at him as though Sergio had suddenly sprouted an extra head and started speaking Mandarin Chinese. He shook his head in bemusement and moved in again, leaning to kiss Sergio. Sergio pushed him away. “No,” he said, determined now. “We agreed it was a mistake. We said we’d go back to how things were before.”

Iker couldn’t deny it; that had been the agreement, and what was he supposed to say? Sergio was right. He was still planning to go back to Madrid and home to his loving girlfriend and never tell her what he’d done. He was still planning that despite the fact that he’d just been kissing and grinding against the man he’d sworn to himself he wouldn’t touch again. “Don’t fuck Falcao,” he blurted out, and then cursed himself for saying it. It wasn’t an answer, Sergio had told him, and Iker couldn’t even properly explain why it was so important to him.

Sergio snorted. “Yeah,” he said harshly. “You’ve made it clear how you feel about that. What gives you the right, Iker? Why do you think you get a say?” He was getting angrier now, the injustice, the unfairness of it all overwhelming him. “You’re not gay, last night was a mistake and now you’re going home to your girlfriend and that’s _fine_ , Iker. That’s fine. I’m not judging you, I understand. I want us to be friends. But you don’t get to tell me who I can sleep with! You don’t get to tell me what to do!”

“I know!” Iker shouted. “I know that! I do. Just…fuck, Sergio. Fuck. You can’t…last night, what we did...you can’t just do that with me and act like it never happened!”

“What choice do I have, Iker? I have to act like it never happened because that’s what we agreed! What else am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know!” Iker cried, confused, infuriated, not knowing what he wanted, what he was even really thinking. He’d never felt so out of control, so at sea. He wanted to kiss Sergio, fuck him senseless, and he wanted to hurt him for making him feel so completely unlike himself, for turning him into this mess of emotions he couldn’t comprehend, let alone deal with.

Sergio sighed in frustration. He sat down on the bed, defeated. “I don’t know what you want from me,” he whispered miserably.

Iker ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry. I keep hurting you. I don’t mean to, I just…don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I’m not going to sleep with Falcao,” Sergio said quietly. “I was never going to. It would just have been a drink with a friend. But I shouldn’t have to explain that to you.”

Iker nodded, but his relief was obvious. “Ok,” he said.

“You can’t do that again,” Sergio said seriously. “You can’t ask me who I’ve slept with, or tell me who I can see, or ask me what I did. If we’re going to save our friendship you can’t do that.”

He was right and Iker knew it, accepted the wisdom of it, the fairness of it, but still couldn’t bear hearing it. Sergio was making sense, and Iker understood it, but all he could think of was that this meant that there would be other men in future. Not Falcao this time, but Sergio was making no promises, was not saying there’d never be another man again. Iker foresaw a future filled with suspicion and resentment, assessing each new teammate or every overly familiar opponent as a potential threat. Iker, trying to focus on his family, on his own career, while obsessing over who Sergio was seeing and what they were doing and what it might mean. “Are you fucking Fernando?” he asked, the question just bursting out, surprising even Iker himself.

“What?” Sergio’s tone was disbelieving; he had just made it clear Iker couldn’t ask questions like that and Iker had immediately disregarded him.

Iker knew Sergio was angry but he’d asked the question now and he desperately needed to know the answer, whatever it might be. Even if it meant hearing Sergio confess that he and Fernando had been lovers for years. Even if it meant Sergio telling him that Fernando was the love of his life. Iker had to know. “You and Fernando. Are you and him…”

“No. No, we’re not,” Sergio said bluntly. “I can’t even believe you’re asking when I just..”

“Have you ever?” Iker interrupted, knowing he was on very thin ice.

“No,” Sergio’s denial was said calmly but it was all too obvious that his anger was simmering, barely controlled.

“I don’t believe you, he’s always touching you, I see how he is with you…” The words tumbled out of Iker’s mouth, suspicions and jealousies he’d harboured for years without recognising them for what they were no longer capable of being contained. He needed to know.

Sergio was angry, furious even, but they were here now, having this conversation, despite his efforts to avoid it, and since Iker had asked and Sergio had responded, he might as well continue. “He tried, once, ok? I turned him down. It was years ago and it’s over and it’s nothing to do with you.” It was the truth, more or less. Sergio wasn’t going to reveal Fernando’s secrets, even to Iker.

Iker let out a breath. He felt a strange kind of perverted triumph. Fernando did want Sergio. _His_ Sergio. “That fucking sleaze,” he said bitterly. “He’s married, Sergio. Acts like he’s the perfect husband, Mr Fucking Family Man, and he’s chasing after you. I can’t believe his fucking nerve.”

“You have a girlfriend, Iker,” Sergio said, in a tone that was cold enough to shock Iker into silence. “Don’t judge him.”

Iker swallowed his protests. This was not the time to argue about Fernando. “Why did you turn him down?”

Sergio shrugged. “Because it wouldn’t have been fair to him. He thought he might have feelings for me but I knew I couldn’t feel the same. And he's my friend, and I didn't want to hurt him.”

“Why not?” Iker sensed this was a question that might bring forth an answer he wasn’t ready to here, wouldn’t be able to cope with, but it was too late, he’d asked it.

“Because I was in love with someone else,” Sergio said simply. Dangerous ground, and he knew it, but it seemed everything was coming out now, all his secrets divulged, whether he wanted them to be or not, and clearly his friendship with Iker was now doomed and couldn’t be saved, so why fight it anymore? Why not just let Iker hear the whole story; Sergio’s secret truth, and then Iker could just get on with crushing Sergio’s heart, tell him it was all over, that they couldn’t be friends. If Iker would just do it – say the words, tell him he’d never love him, then maybe it would actually be a relief. Maybe hearing Iker tell him what he’d always known would finally kill his feelings stone dead, or at least allow him to move on. And maybe moving on was exactly what he should do. When he got back to Madrid he could call Rene and tell him to start putting the word out that he wanted to move, that he needed a change of scene. England couldn’t be that bad, even if it was cold and wet.

Iker’s heart was thumping wildly and his ears were ringing. “Who?” he whispered.

“Fuck, Iker, you know who. _You know._ You. I was in love with you. I was so fucking stupidly in love with you.”

Iker could do nothing but stare. Words formed in his throat but he couldn’t speak, his heart was pounding so hard he thought he might faint, his hands were shaking.  

Sergio just kept on talking, unable to stop himself now, barely even aware of what he was saying. “I wouldn’t sleep with Fernando, who actually cared about me, who was actually attracted to me, because I was too hung up on a guy who never even noticed. Because I only wanted you, Iker. And I couldn’t have you so and I wouldn’t take him so instead I went out and I found men who looked like you, Iker, all these guys with dark hair and pale skin and I let them fuck me, and I did it over and over and the whole time I was so fucking in love you. So there. Now you know. Does that make you feel better? Do you feel more secure now? Because I love you. I’m in love with you and you’re not in love with me, you don’t even want me, but you fucked me and now I’m going back to Madrid and I’m going to watch you play happy families with the woman you really love and I’m going to try to love my girlfriend and forget all about you and hope and pray and beg that one day I’ll stop fucking wanting you. So there you are. That’s the truth.”

The world went silent. Iker stood but only because his body seemed to have forgotten how to move. He could no longer feel his heart beating; maybe it had stopped. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t speak. Sergio was a blurry outline sitting on an oblong object. He tried to focus, to calm down, to regain control. It was useless: he couldn’t seem to move, to speak, to get his thoughts in order.

The Sergio-shaped blur rose from the bed and moved closer. Iker’s eyes regained focus and he could see Sergio’s eyes were wet with tears and his face was white with shock and fear and anger too. His hands were shaking and when he spoke his voice trembled. “You think last night meant nothing to me and that I could just move on with Falcao? There was _nothing_ we did last night that I haven’t done with you a thousand times in my mind, Iker. I’ve wanted you since I was nineteen years old and you didn’t want me, you never even noticed, and I know why, I get it, you’re straight and even if you weren’t I’m not good enough, I don’t deserve you.”

“No,” Iker stuttered out weakly. “Don’t…don’t say that…”

Sergio laughed derisively. The sound hurt Iker's ears, wounded him. “Don’t say what? It’s true. I know it’s true. I wanted you so bad, and you only wanted girls and I went and found guys who looked just like you, Iker, all these skinny pale guys with dark hair and I let them fuck me and I always wanted it from behind because then it was easier to pretend that it was you. Years and years, Iker, and you never noticed, so I just tried to move on.” Sergio was sobbing now, his voice cracking over the words, but he seemed unable to stop, it was like he’d been barely suppressing a torrent of emotions and jumbled up thoughts and twisted hopeful fantasies over the years and now he couldn’t contain them anymore. “And now all of this happens and there was Zlatan and I don’t even know why you did what you did last night and I wanted it, Iker, I wanted you so fucking much and I didn’t care why you were fucking me, I was just wanted you. I always want you. Right now I’m standing here and all I want is for you to tell me you want me and you care about me and if you would just fucking say that I would take off my clothes and get on that bed and I would beg for you. I would do anything you wanted. But you’re not going to say it, are you? You don’t want me. You never have.”

Iker tried to speak but he couldn’t; he could only try to absorb the barrage of words, try to understand what Sergio was telling him, and all he could seem to grasp was that Sergio thought he didn’t care about him, didn’t want him, and Sergio – Sergio, who was the most loveable, desirable, wonderful person Iker had ever known – Sergio seemed to be saying that he loved him, and Iker didn’t know how to respond, knew he’d never have the right words, and just want to reach out and hold onto him, wrap his arms around him and stay there, just like that, until everything started to make sense again. Sergio was breathing heavily, eyes still bright with tears, his lips red from Iker’s kisses and all Iker wanted to do was press their lips together again and kiss him, kiss him and keep kissing him and maybe that would be an answer, or at least enough of one to make Sergio forgive him. He needed to be forgiven, Iker knew that. He’d fucked up in some huge and profound way he didn’t understand yet but he knew he was guilty, knew he’d let Sergio down, betrayed the one person who’d always been on his side.

“No,” Sergio said quietly. “You’re not going to say it. I didn’t think you would.” He pushed past Iker and went for the door, almost pulling the handle away in his desperation to get out.

Iker watched him helplessly, unable to make himself move. “Sergio,” he said weakly.

But Sergio was gone.


	15. Chapter 15

Iker stood, alone, in the centre of the room, eyes fixated on the door Sergio had slammed shut behind him. He felt as though his throat had somehow closed up, like he couldn’t breathe. His heart was pounding in his chest, hammering so hard, so erratically that he wondered if maybe he was having some kind of panic attack, or a breakdown. With effort, he made himself move to the minibar and get a bottle of mineral water. He poured a glass and gingerly sat down on the bed, making himself take small, careful sips. Slowly his breathing returned to normal.

Sergio had said he loved him. No – he’d said he was in love with him. That he’d been in love with him for years. Wanted him for years, since he was nineteen years old. Iker cast his mind back to Sergio’s first time with the national team, his first days with Madrid. He could picture teenage Sergio so clearly – that gangly frame that was already strong and powerful and ready to be moulded into the weapon it was today, that caramel skin already adorned with tattoos that represented the things that mattered to the young defender, a history of everyone he loved, every triumph, written on his body. That hair – famous hair, Iker thought, hair that people joked about and teased him over and yet were constantly touching, stroking.

Iker remembered being impressed by Sergio’s ambition, by his reckless talent that was waiting to be refined and directed, his energy and passion. He’d wanted to help him, welcome him to team as he did all newcomers, but even from the very first Sergio hadn’t been like the others. He’d stood out. Maybe it was because Sergio somehow managed to seem both in awe of Iker and yet entirely unafraid to jump on him in training, grab him from behind and wrestle him to the ground in a way hardly anyone else ever dared. Maybe it was the way he could seem so confident one moment and so shy the next, the way he seemed to revel in his growing reputation as a lothario while at the same time sincerely believing in romance and true love. Sergio would go clubbing and the following day all the gossip would be about the hot new model or television presenter he’d apparently done several unspeakable things with but then Sergio would board a flight for their next match and spend it weeping over the latest soppy melodrama or giggling over some stupid rom com. He’d fly into challenges on the pitch and was always the first one to arrive, ready to fight, if a teammate was the victim of a harsh tackle, then be found cooing over someone’s baby and playing dolls with someone else’s little girl.

Slowly, and without really knowing why and how, Iker grew attached to Sergio. He started to look forward to seeing him at every morning, offered to drive him to training at first just because they lived near each other and it made sense, but quickly he came to enjoy it, to anticipate Sergio's smiling face when Iker pulled in to pick him up, to enjoy his company on the drive to work. He started asking him to lunch, and then inviting him back to his place, and before he knew it, Sergio was his friend. Still, for a long time, when Xavi asked how he tolerated the young Andalusian’s flamboyant, headstrong nature he would brush it off with some bland platitude about needing to get along with his defender. He couldn't quite explain, even to himself, why that was, other than a powerful reluctance to discuss Sergio with Xavi, to try to explain their friendship and why seeing Sergio every day made Iker feel calmer, happier, more _himself_ , in some strange way. He hadn't wanted to examine it too closely, in case understanding it somehow changed it, made it seem wrong, even foolish.

The circumstances of their career and the nature of their club meant that they were thrown together frequently, and puppyish tussles on the training pitch gave way to friendly hugs on the dressing room and after matches. Sergio was a warm-hearted guy, affectionate and caring, and he hugged everyone, was always putting a friendly hand on a teammate’s shoulder, kissing a cheek in greeting, wrapping an arm around a shoulder. Somehow, without Iker even really noticing, he’d come to not only tolerate, but expect, even encourage, Sergio’s physical demonstrations of affection. He grew used to the hand on his arm in emphasis, or resting on his thigh for no clear reason. He came to expect the sudden hugs, the kiss on the cheek or forehead or head, and not only that, but he found himself returning them. Instigating them himself. He remembered a flight somewhere – maybe they were leaving Madrid or maybe returning, he didn’t recall the details – reading a magazine and suddenly becoming aware that Sergio had been dozing, head nestled on Iker’s shoulder, arm pressed tight against him, for the better part of an hour without Iker even realising. He had become accustomed to the contact.

He recalled being in the tunnel before an international match – again, he couldn’t remember when or where the match was played or even who the opponents were – and chatting to Xavi and Puyol and Iniesta when Sergio arrived down the tunnel, exchanging high fives and hugs and good lucks with everyone he encountered until he reached Iker, at which point Iker had simply automatically leaned over to accept Sergio’s kiss on the cheek and kiss Sergio’s in turn. Xavi had shot him a look and Iker had shrugged, feeling vaguely embarrassed and resenting Xavi for causing his discomfort. Some time after the match ended Xavi had asked him about it; teased him. “What’s the story with letting the gypsy boy kiss you before the game?” Iker had just laughed and told him it wasn’t unusual – Sergio was like that with everyone. Xavi had let it drop, but the pre-match routine of kissing Sergio in the tunnel stuck, was a ritual that went on to this day, and was no longer noticed or remarked on by any of their teammates, either national or club, unless they happened to be very new and very green. If he was ever asked about it by someone outside of football, Iker would grin and dismiss it as a silly superstition.  Which it was, he supposed, but it was also more than that: it meant "I've got your back", "I believe in you," and "no matter what, we're in this together."  Iker had always appreciated their little ritual, had always derived comfort from it. But in the last few months it had meant so much more. It meant "you've still got me" and "you are still my captain" and "you _can_ do this, I will always believe in you."

They’d become friends. They’d driven each other to and from training, gone for long, leisurely lunches, sat together when travelling, played cards and video games and watched movies together, sat up late in each other’s hotel rooms sharing their worries and gossiping about teammates and women. They’d gone to the same parties, had shopping trips, attended club functions together, even dated some of the same girls. And all that time, Sergio had wanted more. Sergio had been thinking about Iker as something more than a friend, a teammate. He’d been imagining Iker in bed, fantasising about kissing him, being fucked by him. So much so he’d gone out and found other men who looked like Iker and done with them what Iker would not do. Other men. Men with pale skin and dark hair and slim bodies, Sergio had said. Men who reminded him of Iker. Men he wanted because they looked like Iker, the man he really wanted. Men who fucked Sergio from behind so that Sergio could pretend. Iker felt a surge of white-hot rage at the thought, at the idea of these faceless, nameless substitutes who had taken what should have been his.

He’d never suspected. He could say that, hand on heart. He had never for a moment entertained the idea that Sergio saw him as anything other than a teammate and friend. Sure, he knew Sergio had experienced a little hero worship of sorts when he’d first started with Madrid, but that was far from unusual and Iker hadn’t been the only one Sergio had been in awe of. Far from it.

There had been that kiss, the one Iker hadn’t let himself think about. Iker had attributed it to drunken excess and youthful exuberance – his own and Sergio’s. He could acknowledge now that he’d been aroused by the kiss, that he’d liked the feel of Sergio’s firm young body pressed against his, his fingers tangled in Sergio’s long hair, his tongue seeking out the heat of Sergio’s welcoming mouth. He’d been turned on by the feeling of Sergio grinding against him, both of them getting hard, hearts beating faster. It had felt dangerous, wild, exhilarating. It had had the tantalising thrill of the forbidden, and yet at the same time something about it had felt so innocent, as though it was just the pure and natural consequence of being two young attractive men fuelled by adrenaline and raging hormones.

Iker knew that, had accepted over the last day or so, that he’d have gone further that night if Guti hadn’t interrupted them. If he had, would things have been different? If he’d sneaked upstairs with Sergio that night, found a quiet room, and given in to the pull of inhibitions loosened by alcohol and hormones, what would have happened afterwards? He tried to imagine it and found it was alarmingly easy to picture it, to think about what it would have been like to fuck teenage Sergio senseless, make him writhe and moan, make him say Iker’s name over and over like Iker was the only one he’d ever want and all he’d ever need.

Maybe if it had happened back then, if Iker had given into drunken lust, and unknowingly granted Sergio’s secret wish, things would have been entirely different. Maybe he and Sergio would have had a fling, the kind that flared suddenly and burned brightly but briefly, over and forgotten in a matter of weeks. Maybe it would have lasted longer, a secret liaison carried out in foreign hotel rooms and national training camps that eventually ended in tears and recrimination, the sort that eventually ensured that love turned slowly into hate and led one or the other (probably Sergio, back then) to leave and find another club in another country, while national teammates speculated and gossiped behind their backs, not knowing why the atmosphere between them was suddenly so awkward and tense. Maybe they’d have slept together a few times before Sergio realised that having Iker was an altogether duller and less satisfying experience than secretly longing for him and one day he took Iker aside and informed him, kindly but decisively, that they were finished and Iker would need to move on. Or perhaps it would have fizzled out naturally, for both of them, over weeks or months and they’d have gone back to being friends, and on nights out would laugh about that crazy time when they thought maybe they were in love. Or maybe Iker would have realised, over time, that what he felt for Sergio wasn’t just friendship or protectiveness. Maybe he’d have fallen in love with him, and maybe Sergio would’ve stayed smitten, and maybe they’d be together now, an established couple, with teammates for both club and country mocking them for being so devoted.

All of those possibilities vanished the moment Guti came calling Sergio’s name and dragged him away from Iker to sing flamenco for Beckham and Iker had been left, breathless and half-hard, dazed with arousal and slightly dizzy with the knowledge that it was because of his young defender. Iker had stumbled past Sergio, whose face was flushed and who still looked entirely too fuckable as he swayed unsteadily and sang an old song about loving the wrong woman, and made his way to the kitchen where he’d gulped down a glass of water and then called a taxi to take him home before he did anything completely crazy like going back and dragging Sergio away from their whooping and cheering teammates and pushing him to his knees so he could put that mouth to better use than singing.

So nothing had happened and not long afterwards Iker had met a girl that, for a while, he believed might be his future wife and he’d forgotten, more or less, about that kiss, chalked it up to drink and hormones and when now and then he noticed how good Sergio smelled when he hugged him, or how soft and full his lips were when he’d swoop in to kiss Iker’s cheek, or how smooth and touchable Sergio’s skin looked in the sunshine, he’d shrug and dismiss his thoughts as simple observations. Who could fail to notice, after all, that Sergio was attractive, that his tanned skin begged to be stroked, that his lips invited you to kiss and his eyes danced with a beguiling sense of mischief?

Alright. So maybe not every heterosexual man had thoughts like that about his friend. But genuinely it hadn’t seemed odd to Iker at the time. It had seemed entirely normal, acceptable. He lived in a male-dominated world and within that world, expressing affection for teammates, colleagues and friends was entirely normal. Should he have guessed? Were there signs? Sergio kissed and hugged and petted everyone, or so it seemed to Iker. Iker had never had any reason to wonder whether the kisses he received from Sergio were different to those the defender lavished on everyone from Navas to Torres to Iniesta. When Sergio threw his arms around Iker in training and let his hands slide into Iker’s hair, was that any different to when he threw Mata or Cazorla on the ground and rolled around with them? Were the hugs Sergio so routinely gave to Iker more intimate, more loving than those he gave to Cristiano or Marcelo? How was Iker to differentiate? How had he been expected to know?

He had shared hotel rooms with Sergio in countries whose hotels couldn’t easily accommodate the needs of an entire team of footballers, and never had Sergio given the slightest indication that he was uncomfortable with the arrangements, or that being so close to Iker had any effect on him at all, be it good or bad. He’d been in showers and hot tubs and swimming pools with Sergio and never caught Sergio looking at him with anything but the same open, guileless, affectionate smile he seemed to give to everyone.

Maybe, Iker suddenly thought, the clues hadn’t been in Sergio’s behaviour in particular, but in the way they behaved together. Maybe it was in the way he sought out Sergio, before, during and after matches. In the way they kissed before each match, in the way good play on the pitch was rewarded with a kiss or a whispered endearment, in the way afterwards, they would always make sure they found each other to exchange hugs and kisses and congratulations on a good match or commiserations and words of encouragement if things hadn’t gone their way. Maybe he should have wondered about how, when he saw Sergio running towards him, his reaction was always to smile and hold out his arms for a hug or to pick him up and hold him, whisper to him. Maybe it was in the way he always felt faintly unsettled when he wasn’t the one sitting beside Sergio when they were travelling, or the way, on the rare occasions Sergio wasn’t with the national team because of injury, Iker always felt vaguely uncomfortable, and he ended up feeling bad tempered and out of sorts. A bad temper that was always resolved the first day back at training when Sergio would turn up with a smile and a kiss hello and demands to hear the latest gossip.

He loved Sergio. He knew that, it wasn’t news. He loved him; Sergio was his most trusted teammate, his closest friend at Madrid. The one who’d taken his side when it might have been easier not to, the one who’d publicly defended him when the sensible thing might have been to stay quiet, the one who’d continued to believe in him and tell everyone who’d listen that he believed in him even when Iker had started to doubt. He loved him.  But that wasn't what mattered.  What mattered was how he loved him, the precise way in which he loved him, and whatever the answer was, it would mean that things would have to change. Iker's life couldn't go back to normal.  There could be no returning to innocent domestic bliss with the woman he'd thought was perfect for him.  Everything was different now.

Maybe their relationship was more intense, had a different quality than others. Iker had even been dumped by a girlfriend because of Sergio. Not someone he’d been seeing for that long, maybe only a couple of months, Iker remembered. They’d argued over Sergio – a ridiculous argument that had spiralled out of control until ultimately Iker had decided he couldn’t be with someone who would pick a fight over something so stupid and meaningless. There had been another party, this time in Iker’s house, to celebrate some victory Iker couldn’t recall – maybe a league victory or a Copa del Rey win – but a big party, in Iker’s house, where everyone had had far too much to drink and Iker had ended up putting Pipita to bed in one of his guestrooms and a queasy Marcelo in the other. Sergio had been there, drunk too as they all were, but not like Pipita and Marcelo had been, not that bad, really, at all, and yet Iker had insisted that Sergio should stay, shouldn’t even think of taking a taxi home, because, he’d said, Sergio couldn’t leave him to deal with “those two idiots” on his own. Sergio hadn’t argued, and had said he’s sleep on one of Iker’s many sofas, but Iker had insisted that Sergio should stay in his room, with him. Share his bed. It hadn’t meant anything at all – Iker had thought nothing of it and he didn’t think Sergio had either. He didn’t even think it was the first time they’d done it. It was innocent, harmless. The only thing about it that Iker could concede was perhaps mildly out of the ordinary had been the fact that, just before turning out the light, Iker had leaned in to kiss Sergio good night. It was done purely on instinct, just an extension of the pre-tunnel ritual. He’d done it without really thinking and gone to sleep peacefully.  So had Sergio, as far as he knew.  Certainly Sergio hadn't seemed to think that good night kiss was anything weird or unusual - he'd kissed back and said good night and curled up contentedly beside Iker, and never mentioned it again.

But a couple of days later, when Iker’s girlfriend had stayed over, she’d found one of Sergio’s long hairs in Iker’s bed. She’d thrown a fit, Iker remembered, refusing to believe that Iker hadn’t had another girl over, accusing him of being just another cheating footballer who lied as easily as he breathed. Even when Iker had asked Sergio to confirm to her that he’d slept in Iker’s bed, she hadn’t believed in him, convinced that Iker had asked his friend to lie for him. Eventually she’d calmed down and said she’d be prepared to forgive Iker this one indiscretion, but Iker had been bemused by her reaction, irritated by her inability to trust him, and displeased, too, by how she talked about Sergio: “hanging around with that Sevillano tart is bad for you, Iker. He’s got a bad reputation. With him around you’ll always be in the way of temptation.” Which had, Iker reflected ruefully, ultimately turned out to be true, although not at all in the way either of them would have expected.

The sudden jarring jangle of a phone ringing jolted Iker from his reminiscing. He reached for the source of the sound. Sergio’s phone. He must have dropped it earlier, when Iker had him pressed against the wall, undoing his jeans. Iker looked at the screen. Illuminated in large letters it said: “Fernando Torres calling.”

Iker knew it was wrong and he didn’t even attempt to justify himself as he pressed the “answer” icon. “Hello,” he said coolly.

There was a moment’s surprised silence at the other end. “Iker?” asked Fernando tentatively.

“Yes. Hello, Fernando,” Iker said, icily polite.

“I thought I was calling Sergio,” Fernando laughed, a little awkwardly. “Did I dial you by mistake?”

That was so unlikely Iker almost snorted. He couldn’t remember the last time Fernando had called him. “No, you called Sergio,” he said.

“Oh,” Fernando was clearly uncomfortable. “I thought he was in Switzerland today.”

“He is,” Iker replied. “I’m there too. The club sent both of us.”

“I see,” Fernando said. “Is he there?” Fernando sounded confused and uncomfortable, totally unprepared for this conversation and taken aback at Iker's cool civility.

“He’s in the shower,” Iker said casually, the lie tripping easily off his tongue. He knew what he was doing, the picture he was drawing for Fernando. He thought of the striker, in England, imagining Iker lounging in a hotel room, answering Sergio’s phone as though he had a right to, Sergio showering in the en suite and then, probably, wandering naked back into the bedroom. Iker was well aware of that Fernando would be speculating about what was going on, whether there was something between Iker and Sergio that he didn’t know about. Good. Iker hoped he did think that.

“Oh. Well…could you tell him I called?” Fernando asked, and Iker was pleased to note that he sounded bewildered, off balance. “Of course,” Iker said civilly. “See you soon, Fernando.” And without waiting for a response he cancelled the call.

Iker thought with vicious satisfaction of Fernando, confused and almost certainly jealous, thinking about Iker with Sergio. Iker and Sergio, fucking like cats in heat. He hoped that was what he was thinking. He was half tempted to send him a text telling him it was true. Anything to keep that sly cheating freckled bastard away from Sergio. All those years, acting like he was the perfect family man, Mr Ideal Husband, and the entire time, he’d been trying to get Sergio into bed. Iker could kill him. Wanted to make him wild with jealousy, hoped he’d put Fernando off ever even looking at Sergio again.

“That was very mature,” said Imaginary Guti. “What a great captain you are.”

“Shut up,” Iker snapped. “I know it was pathetic.”

“Pathetic is one way to put it,” Imaginary Guti agreed. “Also controlling, jealous, manipulative, not to mention a complete liar…”

“I know. I know.” Iker groaned in misery. He was an idiot. A liar and an idiot and a cheat.

“You know he’s thinking that you and Sergio are having an affair,” Imaginary Guti said. “He probably thinks you’re fucking right now. Sergio all wet and naked and soft, just right there for you to touch…and you let him think that. You wanted him to think that. You realise you’ve just outed yourself to Torres just because you’re jealous he might have a chance with Sergio.”

“Alright! I get it. I’m a bad person.”

“You’re not a bad person, Iker,” Imaginary Guti said kindly. “You’re just a more selfish person than you thought you were. You want things you didn’t know you wanted and you don’t know how to deal with it.”

And that was the crux of it, Iker thought. He wanted Sergio. He couldn’t deny it anymore, not when he’d had the best sex of his life with him, not when the thought of Sergio with other men – even other men he was pretending were Iker – made him angry and nauseous. And that was another problem – why was he suddenly so possessive, so jealous? He’d never been like that before, never known he was capable of feeling like that. He didn’t like it. He didn’t want to have those feelings.

He didn’t know if he loved Sergio – not the way Sergio said he loved him. But he knew he wanted him, needed him, couldn’t bear the idea of him with some other man. They needed time to work this out. It was too much, too intense, too heavy to deal with in only a couple of days. He needed space to figure out what he wanted, and Sergio needed time too.

But right now, Sergio was out there, upset and needing a friend, needing help. Iker needed to talk to him. Tell him that they would work this out, they’d find a way to fix this. Because they weren’t broken. Couldn’t be broken.

Iker got up and washed his face. He could do this. He had to. He tried Sergio’s room, knowing he wouldn’t be there but hoping anyway, and then headed downstairs, trusting instinct would guide him. In the foyer, he thought about where Sergio would go. For a drink, he thought, but when he searched the bar, Sergio wasn’t there. He met Reus in the foyer near the reception desk. “Reus,” he asked, in his stilted English. “Sergio? Have you seen?”

“I saw him go into a room over there, a while ago,” Reus said. “With Ibra.”

Zlatan. Iker’s blood boiled. Of course. Who else but Zlatan? He thanked Reus and strode purposefully towards the door the German had indicated, bracing himself for whatever he might find. He tried the handle but the door stuck.

He tried again, pushing harder, and it gave way.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Sergio stumbled down the corridor, blinking back tears and with no thought in his mind other than the urgent need to get away, to put distance between Iker and himself.

He couldn’t go to his room; Iker would follow him there, once he recovered from the shock of hearing Sergio say the words he’d sworn he’d never say: that he was in love with Iker, that he always had been. Fuck. He’d actually said it. Iker must have been horrified, maybe even disgusted, to hear those words from Sergio’s mouth. Words so unwelcome, confessing to a sentiment he was incapable of ever returning.

What the fuck had possessed him? Away from the claustrophobic atmosphere of Iker’s room, away from Iker’s insistent questioning and those eyes of his that commanded Sergio’s obedience, Sergio was appalled at his loss of control. That couldn’t have been him, in there, letting his temper take over, letting his hurt feelings, his wounded heart triumph over common sense. He was reckless, he was prone to fits of temper and sudden, inexplicable and instantly regretted acts of stupidity or carelessness, but he’d never fucked up on scale quite so large, quite so vitally important, before. No mistake he’d ever made even came close to this one. No previous error on the pitch or drunken encounter with the wrong kind of married man or single woman, no ill-advised argument or unthinking remark had ever been half as bad as this. No other mistake could ever compare, could ever have the same repercussions as this one. This was an error on an epic scale. The kind that some of Sergio’s friends would write flamenco songs about, long, plaintive ballads of guilt and grief and regret that left the heart aching.

Everything was over now. Iker was lost to him. Their friendship might, with time, have recovered from last night’s surrender to desire but now it was inconceivable that Iker would ever be able to see Sergio as anything other than the biggest mistake he’d ever made, a pitiable, pathetic creature who deserved Iker’s sympathy but could no longer be his friend. Iker wouldn’t want to be around Sergio, knowing how Sergio felt about him. It would just make him uncomfortable, and maybe Iker would be afraid Sergio was constantly thinking about him, or plotting ways to get him into bed. There was no hope. Nothing could be salvaged from this horrible mess that Sergio had created. He would leave. He had to. He couldn’t stay, he couldn’t see Iker every day, train with him, perform the captains’ duties with him, and act like everything was the same. He tried to picture it – the two of them going through the motions, faking a friendship that was no longer there, false smiles painted on their faces, carrying out their usual ritual of a pre-match kiss but now each kiss perfunctory, cold, given and received reluctantly. Sitting beside each other on the way to games, trying not to accidentally brush against each other, not bothering even with small talk before taking refuge in iPads or phones. Everything that had once been a mark of their closeness, little moments on the pitch, at training, those little signs of affection, so treasured by Sergio, would be gone forever and replaced by lies. A petty pantomime to replace what had once been real warmth and intimacy.

Sergio imagined a future where he couldn’t touch Iker except for the benefit of the cameras and watching fans. A future where Iker would wince at every forced kiss, would flinch every time Sergio was forced to stand beside him. It was unbearable. Maybe people didn’t die of broken hearts, not really, but Sergio was sure a broken heart would kill his spirit, destroy his happiness, leave him empty and broken.

Almost frantic with panic, with the need to get away, as far away as possible, Sergio fumbled in his pockets for his phone. He needed to call Rene, call him right now and tell him that he had to get him out, get him away from Madrid, as far away as possible, anywhere would do. He couldn’t find his phone and he realised it must have slipped out of his pocket when Iker had been kissing him, undoing his fly and slipping his hand inside. Fuck. Well, he couldn’t go back and ask for it, and he wasn’t going to his room. He’d go downstairs. Most of the other players would be gone, playing golf or taking part in some other bonding activity, and he could go to the bar and have a drink, calm down and get himself back in control. Figure out what to do next.

He made his way to the lift and hit the button for the ground floor. The lift didn’t make any other stops, and when he got out in the foyer, the only people he could see were a couple of journalists from Radio Marca chatting to a guy Sergio thought he vaguely recognised from Catalan television.

He headed for the men’s restrooms. There was no one there and he was grateful for the silence, for the chance to draw breath. He stared at himself in the mirror. His eyes were red and he looked a mess. He splashed his face with cold water a couple of times and then just stood there for a few minutes, collecting himself. He focussed on breathing, tried to clear his mind of anything but the sound of his own exhalations and inhalations, until finally he felt calmer.

When he thought he’d got himself under control and made himself look more presentable, he left the toilets and looked around for the bar. He was trying to work out how to get to it without passing the Radio Marca journalists when he felt a hand on the small of his back. “Ramos,” purred a pleased voice in Swedish-accented Spanish.

Sergio drooped. Not Zlatan. Not now. He couldn’t deal with him, couldn’t talk to him. “Please Zlatan,” he murmured. “I need to be alone.”

Zlatan manoeuvred Sergio around to face him. He stared at him and as he took in Sergio’s red eyes and the expression on his face, he began to look concerned. “Are you alright, Ramos?” he asked.

“Yes,” Sergio lied. “I’m fine. I just need some time on my own.” If he could just sound convincing enough, look determined enough, Zlatan would go away, leave him in peace to deal with his broken heart and his ruined fantasies of a world where he could somehow still have Iker in his life, some way, some how.

Zlatan was watching him intently. “I don’t believe you are fine,” he said. “Let me guess,” he continued, a speculative gleam in his eyes. “You have argued with Casillas. You have realised, perhaps, that you do not need a washed up former legend. He is only weighing you down, you do not need him. You have told him you want to replace him with a dashing Swede.”

He was half-joking, Sergio could tell, and though the words stung, the insult to Iker still hurting him despite everything, he was too tired and too worn out to disagree. “Yeah? You think so?” he asked, a hard edge, a hint of bitterness creeping into his voice. “You really think I want you?”

Zlatan puffed out his chest. “Of course,” he asserted, his self-confidence unassailable. “I am Zlatan.”

Sergio laughed half-heartedly. “You are,” he agreed.

Zlatan looked around and whatever he saw seemed only to spur him on. He nodded decisively and took Sergio by the arm. “Come with me,” he said. “ We will talk privately.” He started off towards the lifts, Sergio following only because it was a decision someone else was making for him and there was a certain relief in that right now. “I’m not going upstairs with you,” he warned, when it looked as though Zlatan really was taking him to the lifts.

“We will not go there,” Zlatan said, and veered towards the left. Around a corner, there was a door Sergio had never noticed and would have ignored even if he had. It was clearly marked “private”. Zlatan disregarded the sign and pushed it open. Signs other people obeyed were probably just helpful suggestions to Zlatan, Sergio thought. He doubted whether Zlatan had ever obeyed a rule in his life.

It was some kind of store room. Cleaning supplies were stacked neatly on shelves and mops leaned against the wall. Zlatan picked up a mop and propped it under the door handle. “So,” he said, turning to face Sergio and advancing towards him, slowly and deliberately. “Tell Zlatan what has happened.”

For a wild moment Sergio almost considered telling him. Maybe it would be a relief, pouring his heart out to a near stranger, and maybe Zlatan would understand, wouldn't think it was so completely ridiculous that Sergio was so helplessly in love with a man who was so profoundly incapable of returning his feelings.  Then again,this was Zlatan, who most likely couldn't conceive of ever loving someone who didn't love him, because he was Zlatan, and that meant being confident that everyone loved him, all of the time. “It’s nothing,” he said. “I’m just having a bad day. No reason.”

Zlatan considered him. “You are lying to Zlatan,” he said. “But that is alright. Zlatan will forgive you.” He moved closer, until they were standing so close that Sergio was sure Zlatan could hear the beating of his heart. Zlatan raised his hand and traced a finger along Sergio’s jawline. “If you show Zlatan you are sorry.”

Sergio tried to step back, to put some distance between them, but Zlatan had backed him against a narrow table and there was nowhere to go. “I’m fine,” he insisted, swallowing. “I don’t need you to forgive me.”

Zlatan’s gaze was intense, almost intrusive, and Sergio had the almost overwhelming feeling that it saw too much and too clearly. It was humiliating, to think that his deepest secrets, already spread out like a feast before the stunned and disgusted Iker, were now on view to Zlatan. “You are not fine,” Zlatan said, placing one arm on either side of Sergio’s body, resting his hands on the table. He leaned in, hair brushing against Sergio’s cheek. “But you will be. I promise. Let Zlatan kiss it better,” he whispered, and his tongue darted out and licked Sergio’s ear lobe.

Sergio flinched. “I don’t want to…” he began, but Zlatan’s mouth closing over his own cut him off. Zlatan kissed him firmly, as though he had decided that there was to be kissing and he had no intention of debating the matter. Sergio knew he should stop him – he didn’t want to be kissed by Zlatan, he didn’t want to be here at all, but he couldn’t seem to make himself act. He stood there and allowed Zlatan to kiss him, not moving, not participating at all. Zlatan withdrew and looked at him, trying to read his blank expression. “I can make you forget,” he said softly. “Whatever it is you want to forget, Zlatan can help. Zlatan will make you forget your precious so-called saint.”

“I really don’t think you can,” Sergio whispered. “No one else ever has.”

Zlatan chuckled and pressed another long kiss to Sergio’s unresisting mouth. “You have never had Zlatan,” he said.

Which was true enough, Sergio supposed, and fuck, it was tempting, to just let someone else take control, let someone else take care of him.  It would be restful, he thought, to have his mind centred on someone who wasn't Iker, be kissed and caressed by someone who wasn't conflicted about wanting him, to have someone who never wanted to be any kind of saint make him forget all about the man he really wanted.

“You’re so sexy,” Zlatan drawled, nuzzling at Sergio’s exposed throat. “So hot. Your body…so fucking incredible….almost as good as mine.”

Sergio laughed harshly. “Almost as good as yours? Really?”

But Zlatan didn’t seem to pick up on the derisory note in Sergio’s voice. “Mmmm,” he hummed in agreement. “So sexy, Ramos. Used to watch you, in Spain. Fuck, you’d turn me on. Watched your matches on TV sometimes just to see you take off your shirt. Asked Geri once, would he ask you if you would join in with us.” Zlatan raised his head from kissing at Sergio’s throat and looked at him, raising an eyebrow. “You can imagine I think what his reaction was.”

“Hmmm,” Sergio replied, picturing Pique’s horrified face. It didn’t amuse him. He wasn’t doing this to get any kind of fucked up revenge on Pique. He wasn’t into tit for tat and their relationship wasn’t like that anyway.

“Thought about it sometimes,” Zlatan continued, tongue slipping out to lick lightly at the nape of Sergio’s neck, “when I was alone. You and me and Geri, it would have been good. So good.” Zlatan moaned at the thought.

“I’ve got no problem with Geri,” Sergio said, the thought suddenly occurring that perhaps that’s what Zlatan thought was going on. “So if you’re doing this because you want to hurt him, leave me out of it.”

Maybe this was as much about Pique for Zlatan as it was about Iker for Sergio. Maybe the Swede had feelings for the Catalan defender that hadn’t been returned, and maybe this was Zlatan’s way of dealing with rejection. “I care about you so little that I would fuck the teammate you’re famous for not getting along with” might be what passed for a Hallmark greeting card message in the world of Zlatan. Maybe this was some kind of bizarre attempt at proving to Pique that Zlatan was over him, or an equally fucked up attempt to win him back. Or maybe it was as simple as Zlatan being horny and finding Sergio sexy. Sometimes there was no hidden message, no deeper meaning, and sex was just about sex. Pleasure for its own sake. Sergio knew what that was like, but over the years the lines had become blurred and sometimes it was hard to tell whether he was having sex with a man because the guy was hot and Sergio was in the mood, or because he wanted Iker, who wasn’t there and didn’t want him.

Zlatan laughed softly. “It is not about Geri,” he said. “Zlatan knows Zlatan is incredible,” he said, his hands stroking under Sergio’s t-shirt, “but you are a very sexy man, Ramos, Zlatan knows he is not the first to tell you so. Let Zlatan show you how much he appreciates you.” The hardness nudging against Sergio’s thigh was certainly proof that Zlatan was into it, Sergio mused, as one of Zlatan’s hands found its way to Sergio’s head and tangled in his hair, Zlatan kissing along Sergio’s exposed shoulder blade.

Sergio was strongly reminded of Iker, only an hour or so ago, pressed against him just as tightly as Zlatan was now, Iker’s cock hard against Sergio’s thigh as he ground against him, Iker’s hands roaming under his shirt and undoing his jeans and Iker’s mouth kissing him. Fuck, it would have been so easy to go along with it, to let Iker use his body to claim Sergio, to let Iker fuck pleas and promises from him, make him swear he wouldn’t see Falcao ever again, if that was what Iker wanted. Sergio would have done it, would have given Iker anything, everything, if Iker had only said he wanted him, that he cared about him, rather than trying to demonstrate that it was Sergio would needed, Sergio who wanted, and Iker the only one with the power to deliver. Iker, the only saint who could answer Sergio’s prayers.

“Fuck, want you so much, Ramos,” Zlatan grunted, unfastening his own trousers and opening the top button of Sergio’s jeans. “You drive me crazy. Thought about it…wanted you….want to fuck you, fill that tight little ass of yours, make you scream…bet you scream, don’t you, bet you moan about how much you love it…”

Zlatan didn’t seem to need or expect a response and Sergio just let the older man stroke him and kiss him and grind against him, listened to the stream of filth that poured from his mouth and wished it was Iker instead, wished it was Iker saying those things, talking like he really wanted Sergio, wanted him desperately, thought about him the way Sergio fantasised about him. But Iker didn’t want him, not really, and Zlatan did. Iker would never say those things, would be embarrassed and disgusted to think Sergio even wanted to hear them, and Zlatan would. Zlatan would say them without the slightest hint of shame and he meant them, that much was obvious. Zlatan really did think he was sexy. Zlatan wanted him. Was turned on by him. So what if Zlatan didn’t love him – he wasn’t afraid to say what he wanted and Iker couldn’t do that, so why shouldn’t Sergio have this instead?

Zlatan seemed to decide that a little real participation from Sergio was required. He raised his head from Sergio’s neck and, holding Sergio’s head in on hand, moved in to kiss him. This time Sergio opened his mouth and let Zlatan’s tongue inside, returned the kiss as Zlatan explored his mouth. Zlatan kissed him deeply, thoroughly, but it was nothing like Iker’s kisses, passionate and hot and sometimes fuelled by anger Sergio could sense but not entirely understand, and yet suddenly tender and even sweet, almost loving, though Sergio knew that whatever they were, they were not _that_. Sergio wrapped his arms around Zlatan’s neck and Zlatan was taller than Iker and the angles were different and Zlatan’s long hair tickled Sergio’s in a way he couldn’t get used to. Zlatan’s large hands stroked Sergio’s skin with confidence but his hands were rougher than Iker’s and though his every move was assured and certain, they didn’t send ripples of pleasure through Sergio’s body, they didn’t make heat pool in his groin, they didn’t make his stomach somersault in anticipation. Sergio was far from the first man Zlatan had been with and it was obvious he knew what he was doing, and yet Iker, who’d never been with a man before, had read Sergio’s body with the ease of one who’d made a study of it and knew exactly where to stroke to make Sergio moan with pleasure, where to lick to make Sergio quiver, where to suck and nip to make Sergio keen with arousal.

"Iker," Sergio moaned, barely above a whisper, a protest and a plea - that Zlatan would stop, that Iker would save him, want him, love him.

"Sssh," Zlatan murmured in response.  "You will forget.  You will only think of Zlatan.  Zlatan promises."

It was no good, Sergio thought, tears pricking his eyes even as he clung more tightly to Zlatan, even as he let Zlatan deepen the kiss, even as he felt Zlatan’s hands gripping his ass and grinding against him. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want Zlatan. He wanted Iker. Needed Iker. Loved Iker.

The sudden crash of the mop falling to the ground as the door opened made them both jump. Iker stood in the doorframe. He stepped inside and slammed the door shut behind him. His face was white and his eyes were dark with rage. He stared at Zlatan, whose hands still gripped Sergio’s ass, whose eyes were still full of lust.

“Get your fucking hands off him,” Iker snarled.


	16. Chapter 16

Sergio had seen Iker angry hundreds of times before. He’d seen him furious during a match, roaring expletive-laden instructions to his hapless defenders, Sergio himself often the chief recipient. He’d seen Iker, in a fit of temper, throw his boots across the dressing room after a particularly poor performance, witnessed him embroiled in often vicious arguments with teammates he didn’t get on with in general or had just had a difference of opinion with. He’d seen Iker white with anger and red-faced with rage. Iker in a temper was always gesticulating, shouting, always in movement.

He’d never seen Iker quite so terrifyingly still with anger before.

Iker stood in front of the closed door, staring at Zlatan with cold hatred written on his face. His hands were clenched in tight fists and he was clearly using every ounce of willpower he possessed to remain in control, to stop himself from physically tearing Zlatan away from Sergio. Sergio had never been frightened of Iker before, and he wasn’t now either, not really, but even he couldn’t suppress a shiver of trepidation. He wondered how Zlatan could bear to stand there and meet Iker’s gaze. “I thought I told you take your fucking hands off him,” Iker repeated, spitting out each word.

“That is not a decision for you to make, Casillas,” Zlatan replied, sounding quite calm. Even so, for once he seemed to sense that Iker was best not argued with. He released Sergio and stood back. His shirt was half open, his trousers undone, the outline of his softening cock still visible.

“Get out,” Iker said again, and if Sergio had been asked only the day before, he’d have said with certainty that Iker was incapable of these ice-cold words, this unsettling air of barely controlled anger. He had thought that he knew Iker, that he understood him. He’d thought there was very little Iker was capable of that Sergio could not predict. Iker seemed to have spent the last twenty-four hours determinedly proving him wrong.

“I am going nowhere until Sergio asks me to leave,” Zlatan replied, looking entirely controlled and calm, as though his clothes weren’t rumpled and his hair wasn’t a mess and he wasn’t halfway undressed. Even in such a state – clothes undone and his arousal still heavy in the air – the Swede managed to project an air of arrogance, of a nonchalant dignity that Sergio couldn’t help but admire. He knew he himself was projecting all the dignity of a bedraggled kitten caught stealing cream.

“Fine,” Iker said through teeth gritted in fury. He turned to look at Sergio, still pressed up against the table, t-shirt rumpled, jeans half undone, face flushed. Under his captain’s gaze Sergio cringed with embarrassment. He had rejected Iker’s advances, confessed his enduring love to him, and then been found entangled with Zlatan, Zlatan’s tongue in his mouth, his big hands all over him, about to let Zlatan fuck him. What must Iker think of him? Surely he could only interpret this as proof that Sergio wasn’t serious, was just the same frivolous hedonist he knew people like Xavi had always thought he was.

Sergio knew what Xavi and others like him thought of him. A hot-head who couldn’t be trusted not to make some catastrophic error on the pitch, the reckless idiot who threw himself into tackles without thinking what it cost the team. Shallow, self-obsessed, vain, and far too stupid to understand anything other than fucking and football, and the latter only at the most basic level. Not at all the kind of person who could ever be anything more than just a fun distraction for someone like Iker. Sergio was the clown, the team jester whose love of life buoyed up his more serious captain, whose smiles and jokes and dancing and singing helped bring Iker out of himself, stop him from obsessing too much about teammates he thought had turned him on, rivals who wanted to take his place, journalists who criticised and a family who had turned out to be just another in a long line of problems Iker didn’t need. Sergio was good company when Iker needed something easy and frivolous but Sergio knew that more than one teammate thought that was as far as it should ever go. Xavi wasn’t the only one who thought the friendship between captain and vice-captain was built on sand.

Iker wasn’t like Sergio. Iker wouldn’t fall in love with someone entirely unattainable when he was still a teenager and then spend years pining. Iker would have got on with his life and found someone who could love him back properly, because Iker was an adult, Iker was mature, and Sergio was still at heart just the same stupid kid who’d fallen for the older guy who’d been kind to him. Iker wouldn’t spend years finding beautiful women to sleep with and persuading himself that he was in love with at least half of them, until the next pretty face turned up. Iker wouldn’t deliberately seek out men who looked like the man he couldn’t have, men who were always stuck in closets so dark not even moths dared enter, men with wives or girlfriends, men with kids. Iker had more self-respect than that.

Iker was not the kind of person who would tell someone he was in love with them and then immediately go and have sex with someone else. He would never comprehend the particular brand of tormented grief and pain and hopelessness that had led Sergio to Zlatan’s arms. He wasn’t going to understand or forgive.

It didn’t matter anyway. There was no friendship left to save, no get out of jail card Sergio could play that would somehow make everything better.

But when Iker looked at Sergio, Sergio didn’t see hatred or disappointment or disgust. He saw Iker, the man he’d loved and respected and admired since he was nineteen years old, looking at him with an expression on his face that could only be described as beseeching. “Sergio,” Iker said. “Do you want Zlatan? Do you want _him_ to…touch you?” His voice trembled a little on the word “touch”, as though with anger or distaste, but his tone was pleading.

Iker, Sergio realised, with a little jolt of surprise, was afraid that Sergio would tell him to go, would say that he wanted Zlatan. That he was going to have sex with Zlatan. Maybe, Sergio thought, Iker hadn’t really understood what Sergio had been saying earlier. Maybe he’d heard Sergio confess that he was in love with him and yet somehow hadn’t absorbed what that meant. Was it really possible that Iker thought Sergio actually _wanted_ Zlatan? Had everything Sergio’d said just sailed over Iker’s head, fallen on deaf ears? Could Iker actually believe that Sergio would throw around words like love so casually, so carelessly? It was all too possible, Sergio knew. How many girls had he sworn eternal devotion to over the years, only to cast them aside because he was bored and there was someone else he wanted more? How many girls had left him because they somehow sensed that there was always someone between them, some unnamed third party hovering around the edges of their relationship, a beggar at the feast? Iker had been with him through all those break-ups, comforting and cajoling, providing consoling hugs and reassuring words and fleeting kisses pressed against cheeks damp with tears. Iker had teased him about how soon he moved on to the next one.  "Hey _nene_ ," he'd cry with a smile, eyes crinkling in amusement, "I thought you were going to marry Antonia last week and now you're madly in love with Sofia?  I'd already bought my tux!" Iker knew how cheap Sergio’s love really was. Sergio’s confession – the truest words he’d ever uttered – meant nothing to him.  

Zlatan was looking at him too, Sergio saw. The Swede was still half-aroused, but he seemed to know that nothing was going to happen here, or at least, that whatever did happen wouldn’t be pleasant. Maybe he anticipated an actual fight. Zlatan looked like he might be up for that. He’d probably relish the opportunity to say he’d ruffled the feathers of the famously calm, collected Casillas.

“No,” Sergio said hoarsely. He looked at Zlatan. “I’m sorry, Zlatan. I don’t think…it’s not you, it’s just…Iker…” He wasn’t making sense but he hoped Zlatan would understand anyway. He was blushing scarlet with embarrassment, he was sure of it. He could feel his cheeks burning. He’d never felt so humiliated before. When he thought of what he’d been about to do, what Iker had walked in on, and everything Iker no doubt thought of him now, he felt sick.

At the sound of his name, Iker moved towards Sergio, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder.

Sergio turned to look up at him. “Iker,” he murmured helplessly, the only word he could say that made any sense, the one word that meant anything to him right now. He was pleading but he didn’t know what for: forgiveness, maybe, or even just understanding. Iker instantly enveloped him in a tight embrace and Sergio couldn’t help leaning in, craving Iker’s warmth, hoping somehow this was a sign that Iker wasn’t going to abandon him, and not just Iker’s wounded pride determined to stake a claim in front of Zlatan. “Get out,” Iker hissed at Zlatan. “You heard him. He doesn’t want you.”

Zlatan regarded Iker, his arms wrapped tightly around Sergio, his body language both protective and possessive. Sergio was clinging to Iker, tears in his eyes, pale and shocked-looking. “There is no need to make a problem, Iker,” Zlatan said. “I do not object to sharing him with you. You are not ugly.” Zlatan said the words with a glint of humour in his eye, a touch of a challenge there.

Sergio’s disgust suffused his face, his outrage barely contained. He wanted to protest, wanted to point out he wasn’t a toy, he wasn’t a plaything to be passed around. He made a movement towards Zlatan but Iker got there first. Apoplectic with rage, his face red, Iker released Sergio and in one fluid movement of surprising speed was in front of Zlatan, pushing him forcefully in the chest. “Don’t you fucking talk about him, don’t you dare!” he growled. “Don’t even look at him, don’t talk about him, don’t so much as think about him. He’s not interested. So get out. _Get. Out._ ”

Zlatan smirked. “I didn’t know you had so much anger, Casillas. I am impressed.”

Iker lunged at the striker and it was only Sergio, reaching out and grabbing his arm, pulling him back, that prevented him from hitting him.

“Iker!” Sergio said, stunned. This wasn’t his friend and teammate – San Iker didn’t hit other players, he didn’t attack men in public just because they’d annoyed him. Iker had surprised even himself. He wasn’t that kind of man; had never wanted to be. He’d always scorned the hot-tempered macho type for whom violence was the answer to every problem; he’d never thought there was anything to admire in the sort of man who reacted to insults or provocation by rushing in, fists flying. He couldn’t believe he had been about to hit Zlatan. Zlatan, of all people, who would relish the chance to have this power over Iker, who would either tell the media immediately or wait and bide his time until the perfect moment came along when he could achieve maximum humiliation for Iker. Zlatan could ruin Iker’s image and reputation so easily, and Iker had given him that power. Fuck. What was wrong with him? What the hell was he thinking? Why was everything in his life suddenly so crazy, so out of control? None of this was him.

Sergio was holding Iker firmly, one hand gripping each arm, restraining him. Zlatan looked amused, that same shark’s grin on his face. Iker wanted to hit him even harder for his obvious enjoyment of the situation, for the fact that Iker’s entire life was falling apart and Zlatan didn’t care, thought it was funny. “You could put all of that anger to a different use, Casillas,” Zlatan said, winking suggestively. “I think Ramos would enjoy it. You and me, taking care of him. We could take turns with him. I bet he’d love that, wouldn’t you Ramos? You look like you’d love that.” He licked his lips lasciviously, eyes roaming over Sergio’s body speculatively, greedily.

“Keep talking,” Iker spat. “Keep talking and I’ll rip your fucking tongue out.” He could feel Sergio’s nails digging into the tender flesh of his arms and the sharp pain brought him back to himself, helped him quell the rush of fury, the desire to punish Zlatan for even daring to think such things about Sergio, let alone say them.

Zlatan’s eyes flicked to Sergio. “You prefer this brute to Zlatan, Ramos?” Even now he looked slightly amused at the entire situation, seemed almost pleased at the reaction he’d managed to inspire in Iker. The crazy thought struck Sergio that Zlatan was enjoying this, that he was getting pleasure from Iker’s loss of control and Sergio’s confusion. Which didn’t make sense, because Zlatan was a lot of things – arrogant, vain, self-centred, but also generous, good-humoured, often kind. Sergio couldn’t really believe he was capable of deriving satisfaction from all of this. Not unless something more was going on. He wondered again about Pique, and whether Zlatan was out for some kind of revenge, in some subtle way Sergio couldn’t decipher.

“I think you should go, Zlatan,” Sergio said.

Zlatan shrugged. He looked at Iker and then again at Sergio. His semi-amused indifference temporarily disappeared. He looked mildly concerned. “Do you want me to go, Ramos? I will go, but do you want this animal to stay with you? Will you be safe?”

It was, Sergio thought, perhaps the first sincere words Zlatan had said that weren’t about wanting to fuck, and it seemed ridiculous to him, almost hysterically funny that Zlatan actually seemed to be suggesting that Iker posed a threat, that he might hurt Sergio. Iker, who rushed to Sergio’s defence when Sergio was insulted by other players, who found ways to subtly take Sergio’s side when national team arguments exploded, or, if Sergio was in the wrong, would nevertheless be there afterwards to comfort and console. As Iker would ever hurt Sergio like that. It was a joke, the suggestion an insult.

Iker bit his lip to stop himself from responding. How dare Zlatan of all people suggest that Sergio should feel frightened of Iker, should be nervous of being alone with him? As if Iker would ever hurt Sergio. Zlatan wanted him to react, wanted him to hit him or at least shout at him again. Anything to make him lose control, make him look bad in front of Sergio.

“Yes,” Sergio said decisively. “You should go.”

Zlatan looked dubious but he could not refuse. “I will go,” he said. “But if you need me you will find me in the bar.”

“He won’t need you,” Iker snapped.

Zlatan merely smiled as he fastened his trousers and smoothed his hair. As he headed for the door, he leaned in and placed a hand on Sergio’s cheek. “If you change your mind, I am always available for you,” he said, and before Sergio could respond, he planted a kiss on the defender’s lips and was out the door. Sergio let go of Iker and stepped away. The room was silent but for the sounds of their breathing and the distant noise of voices from the hotel foyer.

“Sergio,” Iker began, aiming for conciliatory, hoping he sounded calm.

“Don’t, Iker,” Sergio snapped. He turned around, eyes flashing. Moments earlier he’d been abashed, ashamed, even timid. Now he was furious. “What the hell were you thinking? What if you’d hit him, what if he went out here with black eye and told everyone what you did? Do you know what would happen? It would be all over the newspapers, all over the internet! They would crucify you, Iker! They would use this to kick you out of the club, it would ruin your image. You know what they would say!” The more Sergio thought about it, the angrier he became. His mind conjured up wild scenarios, Zlatan giving a press conference to announce to the world that Iker Casillas had given him a black eye because he thought Zlatan was making a pass at Iker’s male lover, oh, and did Zlatan happen to mention that said male lover was Casillas’s vice-captain, Sergio Ramos? The scandal would consume the media, it would destroy both of their careers. It would cost Iker his relationship and maybe even his unborn baby. It would ruin Iker’s entire life, and Sergio would be the one to blame.

“You never want to be the one to tarnish that halo,” Guti had said, years ago, and Sergio was hit with the full force of those words and their meaning now, everything that was behind them, the whole panorama of public ignominy that would follow if this got out. He would be blamed. Eviscerated on live television, his whole life pulled apart and examined for clues that all along he was the conniving Sevillano tart who would destroy the perfect fairytale romance of the sainted goalkeeper and the gorgeous TV presenter, the golden couple whose kiss when Spain had won the World Cup had seized the public imagination, entered into history. And what was Sergio but the Andalusian Casanova who’d very publicly seduced his way through every available woman in Madrid (and some of the unavailable ones)? For it to turn out that he hadn’t confined the notches on his bedpost to women only would scandalise and amuse, but for him to have seduced the saint…well – he’d never be forgiven. They’d tear him apart. No matter that there were plenty of people out there now for whom Iker’s halo was already tarnished – that just made it worse. They’d seize on anything, no matter how minor, that could be used as a stick to beat him with, and how much more vicious would they be, if they knew about what he’d done with Sergio? Sergio had enemies of his own – there were lots of commentators who’d enjoy tearing him down, not to mention an online army who’d delight in seeing him dragged through the coals. But none of that mattered when Sergio thought about Iker, losing his child, losing his family, losing the only club he’d ever known.

“How could you do that?” Sergio went on, trying to keep his voice down and the words coming out muffled but still furious.

“I don’t know!” Iker put his head in his hands. For a few moments he was quiet. He rubbed his eyes and sighed. He looked up at Sergio. “I don’t know, Sergio,” he said quietly. “I can’t explain it. It’s all…everything’s out of control. You with him…I can’t stand it.”

Sergio looked shamefaced. “That should never have happened,” he muttered. “It was a mistake. I’m sorry you saw it.”

“Did you want him?” Iker asked, unable to prevent himself.

“No,” Sergio denied. “No, it was just…I just wanted to forget. I wanted to think about something else. I wanted him to make me feel something else. Because this….Iker, this is too much. It _hurts_.”

The whispered admission cut Iker deeply. The thought that he had hurt Sergio, that he had caused him any kind of pain, was too much to bear. Sergio had always been a loyal friend and he deserved better. He was owed more from Iker, he had proven himself time and time again, standing by Iker through everything, and Iker had repaid him with guilt and shame and hurt. Iker moved towards him, until they were so close that Sergio could feel Iker’s breath warm on his face. Iker raised his hand and gently stroked Sergio’s cheek, traced his jawline. “I don’t want to hurt you baby,” he murmured, letting his thumb caress Sergio’s lower lip, remembering how, the night before, Sergio had taken it inside, sucking it, making Iker moan. Fuck. The memory alone was enough to send shivers of arousal through Iker’s body, dancing down his spine and making his stomach somersault.

“That doesn’t mean you won’t,” Sergio whispered, and Iker longed to reassure him but Sergio’s lips were full and pouting and everything about that mouth promised pleasure, begged to be kissed, sucked, bitten, and Iker was so close to him, so close that he was could almost taste the heat of Sergio’s kisses, and Sergio’s scent was overwhelming, enticing, and Iker suddenly knew, could swear to it, that that intoxicating scent, those full, pouting lips, the heat of that tight hard body, had driven men older and stronger and more experienced than him to distraction, and right now he couldn’t even blame them, couldn’t even hate all those nameless usurpers who’d got there first, because who the hell could resist this? What man could stand so close to that caramel-coloured citrus-scented skin and not long to lick and stroke, what man could be within kissing distance of that bedroom mouth and not give in to the urge to kiss and bite suck? There were reasons not to want this – oh, so many reasons and all of them good – but right now Iker couldn’t remember a single one and none of them seemed important.

“Did you mean those things you said?” Iker asked, and he scarcely knew what he wanted to hear: would it be better to have Sergio admit that everything he’d said was true, that he was madly in love with him and had been for years, and every man he’d been with since then had only been a pale substitute, a stand in for the man he really wanted? Or would it be easier for both of them if Sergio denied it, said he’d been lying or exaggerating or even that he had only said it to hurt and confuse Iker. The rational part of Iker’s mind knew that he should hope for the latter, pray for it even, because then it would be simpler, less complicated, and maybe he could move on with his life and forget this confusing interlude where he’d felt like he could never get enough of Sergio, like he could fuck his teammate forever and never be satisfied, like loving Sergio back was actually an option available to him instead of a delusion he had to cure himself of.

He could lie now, Sergio thought. He could say he’d been exaggerating, and Iker might believe him. He had a reputation for being dramatic, overblown. He was hot tempered and rash and he said and did things without thinking far too often for someone his age. He could deny it all, tell Iker he hadn’t really meant it, that he did love him and he was attracted to him but it wasn’t serious. It wasn’t something Iker needed to worry about; just another one of Sergio’s romantic fantasies, like all those girls he’d sworn he’d die of love for and then a week later he’d forgotten and was pledging undying devotion to someone else.

Maybe Iker wouldn’t really believe him, but he could pretend to, and that would tell its own story. Sergio could let them both have this opportunity: the chance to put this terrible mistake behind them. This was probably their very last chance, he thought. Take it, a voice inside urged. Lie. Tell him it’s not true.

But he couldn’t make himself say it. No was such a simple word, so easy to say, but Sergio couldn’t manage it. He couldn’t lie. Not about this. Not now. “Yes,” he whispered, and waited for the axe to fall.

The silence hung heavily in the air, deep and dense and thick with tension. Iker’s hand had somehow found itself on Sergio’s waist and he slipped it inside Sergio’s t-shirt and let his fingers follow the perfect line of Sergio’s spine, let them lightly stroke the arch of his back and then around to the curve of those little hips, and he let those fingers trace their way up Sergio’s abdomen, following the outline of those well-defined muscles and circling his nipples until they hardened, tingling with sensitivity Sergio’d never really known they possessed before.

Sergio stood completely still, utterly silent, as Iker’s hands wandered over the muscles of his back and chest, afraid to move or speak lest he shatter this fragile connection, this little break from the heightened emotions of the last few hours, this remarkably innocent and yet devastatingly dangerous exploration of his body, a body that unfurled like a flower at Iker’s touch, that was only too willing, too eager to divulge all its secrets. Iker leaned in and slowly, deliberately, let their mouths connect. He kissed Sergio gently; a long, deep, searching kiss that left Sergio breathless, almost shaking. Iker’s arms slipped around him, one arm firmly gripping his waist as the other moved downwards to knead his ass, and how was it that Iker’s touch managed to be so different to Zlatan’s? How could the mere sensation of Iker’s hand on him like this send such bolts of electricity through his body, delicious anticipatory sparks that left Sergio lightheaded? The kiss grew deeper and more heated, Iker’s hand kneading the perfect globe of Sergio’s ass almost feverishly, hard enough to bruise, and Iker’s tongue insistently sought out Sergio’s, flicking against it, his teeth nipping and sucking on Sergio’s bottom lip, his other hand stroking Sergio’s stomach and up to tease a nipple, and Sergio had never really been into that before but it seemed his body had had a sudden change of mind because it made him gasp and Iker chuckled against his mouth in response and kissed him even harder.

Iker moved him back against the table, and nudged against Sergio until he spread his legs to accommodate Iker, the goalkeeper standing between them, until their cocks were aligned and he could grind against him. Iker was hard and Sergio thought he’d never stop being amazed by it, would never cease to be astonished that he was capable of arousing Iker, that Iker’s body could react like this, just to Sergio, just to the two of them kissing. Maybe Iker wouldn’t say the words Sergio wanted to hear, maybe he wasn’t the kind who could confess to the sort of desire Sergio needed to know he felt. Men like Zlatan had no trouble describing every want they’d ever had but Iker wasn’t like that, never had been, and Sergio knew it. Maybe it was expecting too much to want to hear words like “I want you” and “I need you” (he’d never dare to hold out for “I love you”). Just because Iker couldn’t say them didn’t mean he didn’t feel them, Sergio thought, as he held Iker’s head in his hands and returned his kiss, spreading his legs wider so Iker could move even closer, and when Iker’s hands moved lower and lifted Sergio up onto the table, Sergio let him. He didn’t stop when Iker’s hands fumbled at Sergio’s still undone jeans and he raised up to let Iker slide them down, and when Iker lifted Sergio’s t-shirt to suck first one nipple and then the other, Sergio only groaned and threaded his fingers through Iker’s dark hair. Maybe Iker would never say all those things Zlatan had said, but his body was doing all the talking for him, and not even Sergio could convince himself that Iker didn’t want this, not with the goalkeeper’s cock thick and hard and rutting against him, not with Iker’s arms clutching at him like he was scared Sergio would somehow suddenly disappear, not with Iker kissing him like he’d never be able to stop.

This wasn’t something he’d ever thought would happen, though he couldn’t pretend it wasn’t something he’d imagined many times – sex with Iker in the showers at the Bernabeu, in the away dressing room at Camp Nou, in old storage rooms at Mestalla – all of these had featured heavily in Sergio’s fantasies over the years. Sex in a hotel storeroom might not have made the list but it was close enough and even though Sergio knew he’d regret this encounter ten seconds after he’d come, he couldn’t stop it now.

Sex never solved any problems, it wasn’t a quick fix, and letting Iker fuck him wouldn’t make Iker love him, wouldn’t change the fact that Iker was going to go home to Madrid and back to his girlfriend and Sergio would be left with nothing, but Sergio had only been strong enough to say no once, and he couldn’t reject Iker again, couldn’t deny the desire he felt, the intense longing to have Iker any way he could for however long he could, couldn’t ignore the way his muscles clenched in anticipation, the way his hole twitched with the need to be filled again, to have Iker moving inside him, fucking him, making him moan and beg and God, he would do anything, tolerate anything, make any promise, just to feel Iker push slowly inside, claiming him.

Iker’s hand stroked Sergio’s cock, the head leaking pre-cum and Sergio keened, his grip in Iker’s hair tightening and he pulled the older man’s head away from where Iker suckled on a nipple and kissed him, hard and maybe with a little too much teeth but Iker just took it, kissed back just as hard and it was nothing like being with a woman and when Iker’s finger brushed against Sergio’s entrance Sergio couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Please,” he begged, not caring how shameless he sounded, whether Iker would think he was too easy, too wanton. “Fuck me. Please Iker. Please.”

“Fuck,” Iker moaned, tongue lapping at Sergio’s neck, teeth grazing along the tender flesh. “Baby. You’re so hot. “

Sergio hadn’t cared when Zlatan had said those exact words but from Iker, it was different, just like everything was different with Iker, and even if he was only saying it, even if it was only meaningless flattery, Sergio flushed in pleasure. Carefully Iker worked the tip of his finger inside, a slow in and out that already had Sergio gasping, already had him clutching at Iker’s shoulders.

Desperately Iker looked around for something to ease their way and his eyes were drawn the glint of foil on the table. He reached out and picked up two little packets. A sachet of lube. A condom.

Sergio and Iker looked at the two inoffensive little foil-wrapped sachets and Sergio held his breath. Zlatan must have had them, must have taken them out and left them there, ready for use, when he’d been kissing Sergio and Sergio hadn’t noticed, had been too out of himself, too lost in his own thoughts to notice. This was bad. A reminder of Zlatan, a reminder of what Sergio had been about to do with Zlatan, could only infuriate Iker, only force him to confront what he’d obviously been prepared to overlook: that Sergio wasn’t good enough. That Sergio didn’t deserve him, wasn’t worthy even of this, a fast, furious fuck in a storeroom. Sergio had said he loved him but had then gone right to Zlatan, the man who’d spent hours the night before deliberately antagonising Iker, trying to make him lose control.

Iker stared at the sachets and then back at Sergio, at the younger man’s eyes, wide with apprehension, and he threw away the condom and leaned in to kiss him again. For a second or too Sergio seemed too startled to respond but then he kissed back, his eagerness almost overwhelming, his hands reaching out to crush Iker against him so tightly he almost couldn’t breathe. Fingers trembling, Iker tore the sachet of lube open and spread some over his fingers. He needed this too badly now, the desire to be inside was intense, and he thrust two fingers into Sergio without further preparation, making Sergio take a sharp intake of breath. He’d have been worried that he’d hurt him if Sergio hadn’t moaned his name, begged him for more. He slipped his fingers in and out, faster, seeking out that spot inside Sergio that made him tighten his legs around Iker, made his voice go high pitched and ragged. “Iker,” he moaned. “More. Please, Iker, more, fuck me, more.” His hands fumbled for Iker’s fly and he unzipped his jeans and pushed them down in one swift movement, taking his boxers with them, Iker’s hard cock released from its confines and throbbing, moist, ready, begging to be buried in that hot tight body, to drive deep instead and just let go. Sergio’s hand reached down and wrapped around Iker’s length, long fingers teasing, stroking, and then he took his hand away and slowly, deliberately, sucked pre-cum from his finger. Iker groaned, mouth meeting Sergio’s in a hot, messy kiss, and together they grabbed the sachet of lube and squeezed it into Sergio’s hand. “Need you so bad, Iker,” Sergio moaned, slicking Iker’s cock with lube, soaking it as Iker nipped at Sergio’s earlobe, tongue licking and sucking and Sergio’s long, slender index finger slipped inside his own sweet little pink hole, already damp with Iker’s spit and he fucked himself on it, adding a second and then a third, riding his own hand as Iker watched, cock throbbing, until he couldn’t take it anymore, had to be inside, had to fuck, had to claim, and he took Sergio’s wrist and pulled his hand loose and lined up his cock, part of him worrying about the angle and whether they could really do this here, on a table in a storeroom that wasn’t even locked (and fuck, why hadn’t they locked the door, propped that mop handle against it again, anything, someone could walk in at any time and catch the captain of Real Madrid and Spain buried to the hilt in his defender’s ass).

Sergio’s hand gripped Iker’s cock and tried to guide it inside, his other hand holding Iker’s head, mouth at Iker’s ear. “Fuck, Iker, need it, please, fuck me, fuck me,” he pleaded, almost wild with need, and Iker needed no further encouragement, pushed inside, all the way in, with no hesitation and Sergio whined, a high pitched sound of relief and need and maybe the slightest hint of pain, but he pushed himself onto that hard cock, swivelling his hips a little to adjust its thick length inside him. “Just like that,” he whispered hotly, licking at Iker’s throat at around, plunging his tongue into Iker’s mouth and Iker kissed him back and began to thrust, slow and hard and deep. Sergio wound his legs around Iker’s waist and Iker’s hands gripped Sergio’s hips and pulled him forward, Iker’s cock sinking deeper and Sergio moaned, let one hand hold Iker’s head and the other clutched his back, urging him on and Iker just kept fucking, more and more and he couldn’t get enough, couldn’t get deep enough, couldn’t ever have his fill of this, how could he give this up, how could he forget what it felt like to do this, to bury himself inside and know it was exactly where Sergio wanted him.

Iker's hand reached between Sergio's legs and wrapped around his cock, and the grip wasn't perfect, it was maybe a little too tight and the angle was a little off but Sergio didn't care, just let go as Iker fucked him and stroked him and he came suddenly and without warning, a blinding white flash that left him dazed and breathless, and his head knocked back against the wall and still Iker fucked him, his body pliant and loose and entirely at Iker's mercy, ass clenching tight around Iker's cock and Sergio could feel it, the precise moment Iker began to come, and the sensation of Iker spurting stream after stream inside him was almost enough to make him come again, just for the feel of it, the knowledge that this was Iker, Iker, filling up, making him his, and he'd could never, ever have enough of this, and Sergio loved it, would always love it, always want it and he’d take it any way he could get it, for as long as Iker was willing to give it and why had he ever thought he could pretend that he didn’t want this, just this, just the amazing, incredible, indescribable feeling of Iker thrusting inside him, Iker taking control and giving Sergio just exactly what he needed, making Sergio feel like he was the only person in the world who existed right now in Iker’s eyes, the centre of Iker’s universe.

Gasping for breath, Iker let his head fall against Sergio's shoulder, breathing in the scent of Sergio's hair, damp with sweat, and Iker knew he was the same, both of them wrung out and wrecked and clinging to each other, holding each other up, and Iker buried his nose in Sergio's neck and inhaled deeply, let Sergio flood his senses, and he raised his mouth and whispered in his ear: "How could I not love you?"


	17. Chapter 17

Sergio rested his head against the wall, his long fingers threading through Iker’s short hair, his legs wrapped around Iker’s waist. They were both still panting, Iker’s breath hot against Sergio’s neck, his lips ghosting kisses along the defender’s sweat-dampened skin, inhaling his scent, breathing Sergio in. Sergio tightened his legs around the goalkeeper’s waist and clenched his muscles, holding Iker inside him, trying to hold on to that feeling of being filled, being claimed for as long as possible, half-wishing Iker’s cock would harden again, wishing it was possible to keep him there, buried deep inside, making Sergio feel complete. 

“How could I not love you?” Iker had whispered, and the words echoed in Sergio’s ears, beautiful, longed for, treacherous words that he couldn’t trust. “How could I not love you?” Iker had said, and the words in and of themselves were innocent and pure and exactly what Sergio had longed to hear for so long, but they weren’t - couldn’t be - words Iker had used because they meant what Sergio wanted them to. The passion-drenched words Iker had whispered in Sergio’s ear were just the words to a football chant, the endless refrain of the Santiago Bernabeu when their heroes in white had soared to heights greater than those achieved by mere ordinary footballers, when every touch of the ball was perfect and every pass pristine, when every feint and run and shot was a flawlessly executed dance, a marvel of technique and skill and tactical ingenuity culminating in goals that made the heart sing. “How could I not love you?” the crowds would sing, voices raised in joy and triumph, every fan on their feet in acclamation, and every player in white on the pitch swelling with pride and confidence and the feeling that this was it, this was the pinnacle, this was the zenith of their career and they were Real Madrid and this was their home and these were there fans and this was how they played football and this, this is how Madrid wins, and before such beauty there is nothing to do but succumb and give in to love, surrender your heart to the white shirt and the royal crest. Of course Iker, Iker who had never known, let alone loved, another club, who was so steeped in its lore and mythology and romance, would whisper those words in the eager ears of his vice-captain when they were together like this, when Iker was buried in Sergio’s tight, hot body, when they were frantically moving together with perfect co-ordination, every thrust hitting its target, every swivel of the hip, every stroke of the tongue drawing gaps of awed pleasure and shivers of need. In the heat of the moment, when his cock was still pulsing in Sergio’s ass, when Sergio’s hands were still urging on him on, the words that had spilled from his mouth were the same words sung by the Bernabeu faithful when the ball soared gracefully into the net.

Sergio knew that feeling, when the roar of the crowd and the rush of knowing that that you were playing well – better than well, fantastic even – when the entire team was one perfect unified instrument of precision attack and determined defence. It was seductive, it was addictive, and Iker had fucked him three times in the last twenty four hours and each time it had felt just like that: perfect, harmonious, right. Which made it even crueller to be forced to recognise that it was wrong.

Sergio wasn’t naïve. Sex, however spectacular, could never be more than a temporary release, a brief distraction from the reality that Iker was in love with someone else, would probably marry that someone else, was certainly going to have a baby with that someone else, and very soon Sergio would be nothing more than a mistake. A big mistake, certainly, and one Sergio was very sure they’d both end up paying for, but right now, Sergio couldn’t seem to make himself care. Right now, all he wanted was to stay just like this, wrapped around Iker, breathing him in, letting himself imagine that he could keep having this. He wanted to keep Iker inside him, hold on him, keep kissing and sucking and licking until Iker was hard again. He wanted Iker to fuck him and keep fucking him, he wanted to still feel Iker inside him days later, wanted to remember exactly what it felt like, was already imagining how he’d relive every second over and over, how he’d fixate on the exact sensation of Iker coming inside him, Iker thrusting inside him….Iker licked tenderly at a bite mark on Sergio’s neck, breaking Sergio out of his reverie. He groaned and ran his fingers through Iker’s hair once more and then gently raised the keeper’s head. Leaning in, he pressed their mouths together, kissing him deeply, and Iker returned the kiss with a moan, easily dominating it, taking charge. Sergio pulled back. “We can’t stay here,” he whispered. “Anyone could walk in.”

Iker threw an anxious glance at the door and nodded. Reluctantly he withdrew from the warmth of Sergio’s body, pressing another firm kiss to the defender’s mouth as he did so.

They moved quickly, tearing open a catering-size box of cleaning wipes and wiping down the table, removing the evidence. They cleaned themselves as best they could with toilet paper, gathering up the empty lube sachet and unused condom with the grubby wet wipes and balled up toilet paper in a refuse sack and shoving it to the bottom of the bin. Sergio had never fucked in a hotel storage room before but as far as these things went, it wasn’t the worst location, he reflected. 

In the lobby, there were more people around than there had been earlier. The Catalan journalists had moved on and there was someone Iker recognised from Marca deep in conversation with a guy he thought might have interviewed him a year or so before, for one of the British papers. Sergio saw Zlatan in the distance, his back to him, talking intently to Mario Balotelli. 

No one seemed to notice them as they made their way to the lifts and pressed the button. They stood close to each other – not too close, Sergio was careful to maintain an appropriate distance – but close enough to make it clear they were going somewhere together and hopefully, Sergio thought, sending off serious “do not interrupt” vibes.  
Not that Sergio really knew if there was still something to interrupt. They hadn’t discussed where they were going or what they were doing. By mutual consent they’d cleaned up and headed for their floor but Sergio had no idea what would happen next. Maybe Iker would be embarrassed at what he’d said in the heat of passion, ashamed at the words that had slipped out because for no reason other than fucking Sergio had felt better than he’d ever thought it was going to.

Sergio could relate to that. He’d been with men who’d grunted “fuck, I love you” because, for as long as they were buried inside him, it was true. There had even been one guy who’d vowed, as Sergio deep throated him in the shower of a luxurious Basque hotel, that he’d leave his wife for him. Suffice to say, once he’d come all over Sergio’s chest the promise had been swiftly forgotten. Sergio had recently attended him and his wife’s tenth wedding anniversary party. He’d brought champagne.

People said things they didn’t mean when they were distracted by pleasure. Sergio knew he couldn’t trust anything Iker said to him when he was pounding into him, hurtling towards orgasm. 

Even so, he thought, there was no denying that Iker had wanted it. Wanted him. The goalkeeper was in many ways a restrained man, calm and controlled except when moved by anger, or joy. Sergio had always been fascinated by those moments when Iker’s ice-cool façade shattered, when he lost control and his temper took over and he raged and stormed as hotly, as passionately as any fiery Andalusian. Sometimes, when he was younger, Sergio had set out to provoke that reaction, just so he could watch the colour rise in that pale skin, watch those eyes sparkle with heat, listen to that voice, that cool, considered voice that usually spoke in that clipped Madrileno way lose all restraint as rapid-fire insults poured forth. When Iker lost his temper at other players, Sergio would watch in rapt silence, marking the flushed skin, the raised voice, letting himself imagine being the focus of all that passion. On the days when he was the cause of Iker’s ire, Sergio would argue back just as hotly but even in the midst of his own fit of temper, he never stopped appreciating Iker, and how sexy he was when he was angry, how irresistible he was and Sergio would always end up, hours later, at home with his own cock in his hand or maybe sometimes in bed with a girl or having some unhappily married male model blow him in a nightclub stall, thinking about Iker, standing there, yelling at him, and in his fantasies Iker would take the place of Sergio’s own hand or the random girl’s body or the male model’s mouth, and Sergio would come with Iker’s name silent on his lips.

Yes, Sergio had fantasised about having all that passion, all that pent up emotion, directed at him, focused on him, and now he knew what it felt like and it was so much more, so much better than he’d ever imagined, even on his wildest days, and he wasn’t sure he could go back to how it had been before, not now he knew what it could be like. Sergio had had a lot of sex and much of it had been very good indeed but sex with Iker was better than any of it, having sex with Iker was like playing for Real Madrid – knowing that this was it, the ultimate, the best it would ever be, there would never be anything better. When Sergio was at his most confident and happiest, on the days when everything came together and he knew he’d played well, shown what he was capable of, proved that he deserved his place on the team, demonstrated that was worthy of the shirt, the crest, the club, he would sometimes think that he was made just for this, for Real Madrid, because if not, how could it be so good, how could it feel so right? That had been what it had been like with Iker, each time they’d had sex. It had felt so perfect, the pleasure so intense, the feeling so indescribably good, that surely it had to be right? Surely it meant something. That Sergio was made for Iker as much as he was made to play for Real Madrid, to play for Spain?

Sergio wasn’t so deluded as to think that it had been the same for Iker – he would never dare to presume that, but it had been good for the goalkeeper too. Iker couldn’t fake the desire that had been written all over his face, couldn’t pretend to feel the lust that had overridden all sensible thought and caused them to risk everything for the sake of a frenzied fuck in a hotel store room. Iker had wanted him, and wanted him badly, wanted him enough to throw caution to the wind and risk being caught, at the very least, to risk Zlatan knowing, maybe even Falcao too. Wanted him enough to forget that he was San Iker, the loyal, devoted family man, one half of a golden couple, the footballer who’d never cheated on a girlfriend, never done the wrong thing when the right thing was obvious, never let anyone down. Iker had wanted Sergio more than he’d wanted to be the saint, more than he’d wanted to preserve his reputation in front of Zlatan, more than he’d wanted to be the faithful partner. Even if it was only for a few hours, a couple of days – it had been true.

Sergio wasn’t stupid enough to think that it meant very much, but it had to mean something. It wasn’t nothing. There was a reason Iker had chosen him, and not any of the other countless women and men he could’ve had over the years if he’d wanted to. Sergio knew for a fact he wasn’t the only man who’d pined over San Iker, who’d gone to sleep at night with thoughts of the goalkeeper’s deceptively strong body and dark hair filling his mind, who’d slipped his own fingers inside his body and imagined it was Iker’s long pale fingers instead. Iker could’ve had anyone, at any time, but it was Sergio he’d ended up in bed with, Sergio he’d kissed and stroked and fucked.

It might not amount to much, but it wasn’t something to be ignored, discounted. Iker had wanted him, and not anyone else. 

They got into the lift and Iker pressed the button for their floor. He caught a glance at himself in the mirrored walls of the lift. He looked wrecked – his shirt was missing a button, his hair was askew, his lips were red and cheeks flushed. Sergio didn’t look much better. His lips were swollen, there was a stain on his jeans that could only be one of two things and neither was acceptable in public, his hair stood at odd angles. As Iker watched the defender raised a hand and absently pushed the wayward strands back into place, bit his lip, in nervousness or maybe even fear. God knew he had enough reason to be fearful. All Iker had done since they’d arrived was fly into fits of jealous rage  
interrupted by equally sudden fits of lustful passion. Sergio must be confused, and uncertain, and afraid of what was going to happen next. 

“How could I not love you?” Iker had whispered, the words spilling from his mouth almost without his knowing, and maybe it was pathetic that the words were the same ones he’d been listening to for what felt like every year of his life since he’d been old enough to understand them, the same words he’d listened to the Bernabeu chant on the very best days, the perfect days. These were the words that he’d used when he was buried in Sergio’s perfect tightness and enveloped in Sergio’s warmth and somehow they’d felt right, because then, in that moment, that perfect moment of pure pleasure, senses overwhelmed by the miracle that their bodies could achieve together, Iker reached out for the only analogy that made any sense to him – the roar of the Bernabeu crowd, the feeling of being part of something bigger than himself, something beautiful and sacred. What could he compare that feeling to, if not to the sound of thousands of voices singing in elation as Iker saved the certain goal, as Sergio made the perfect tackle, as Xabi picked out the ideal pass to Di Maria and suddenly Cristiano was there, and the ball was swooping into the back of the net and Iker was roaring his delight even as he reached to touch his goalpost in a homage to superstition and as Pepe and Marcelo and Modric and everyone else raced to embrace the goalscorer? 

“How could I not love you?” he had said, and the words were both a confession and an admission of defeat. He did love Sergio, of course he did, and maybe right now he couldn’t quite understand it, but it was true even if he couldn’t yet determine the precise nature of it, even if he couldn’t separate the layers of need and desire and trust and dependency and warmth and devotion that had somehow come together to form something bigger than each one in and of themselves. And it was a failure, it was a defeat, because acknowledging it now meant that there could be no going back, no pretending that this wasn’t something more than just a casual fuck with a teammate, just two friends helping each other out. After this, Iker would never be the same man and he could never go home and face his family with the same open, honest warmth he’d always shown before, couldn’t go back to Madrid and get into bed with the woman he loved and pretend he didn’t know what it felt like to have Sergio’s hard body willingly opening up to him. He could never promise to love her and only her and know that it was true. 

The doors pinged and glided open. Sergio stepped back to let Iker exit first and as Iker started to head down the corridor towards their rooms, Sergio a step behind, he wondered what he should do. Should he let Sergio go? Should they each go back to their own rooms and tidy up properly and say nothing? It wasn’t possible. They couldn’t pretend any of this hadn’t happened. They needed to talk, and maybe it wouldn’t be easy, and maybe Iker didn’t know what to say, but he had to try. He owed Sergio that much.  
He slid the key card into its slot, pushing open the door. “Come in?” he asked quietly.

Sergio nodded and followed him inside, closing the door gently behind him.

Iker stood in the centre of the room, staring awkwardly from the floor to Sergio and back again. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what to say,” he said, aware of how pathetic, how useless the words were. 

“You don’t need to say anything, Iker,” Sergio said softly. “I’m not going to ask you to do anything. I don’t want to make any demands.”

“I meant what I said,” Iker said. “When I…when we were…downstairs, in the storeroom. I meant what I said...”

“You don’t love me, Iker,” Sergio interrupted. 

“I do. Of course I do, how could I not?” Iker protested. “You’re my friend, you’ve been there for me, I need you in my life, Sergio. I can’t lose you. I can’t not have you.”  
“You’re not going to lose me. I’m your friend. I’ll always be your friend.”

It was true, Iker knew, or at least, Sergio believed it to be true, he meant what he said. Sergio wouldn’t abandon him, wouldn’t turn on him, wouldn’t let what had happened come between them.

But it would anyway. Iker could see that so clearly, all the ways their friendship would change. Sergio was in love with him, had been in love with him for years, but he wasn’t going to push for anything, wasn’t going to try to persuade Iker to have more than this just brief fling.

Iker should be grateful. Should jump at the chance Sergio offered him to go back to his normal life and his safe, comfortable, loving relationship.

“You know that, don’t you Iker?” Sergio asked anxiously, looking at him with worried eyes. “You know that this doesn’t have to change anything.”

Iker nodded. Sergio wasn’t going to make any ultimatums, wasn’t going to insist he left his girlfriend, or told his friends, or made any changes to his life at all. Sergio was going to just let Iker go back to his normal life as if nothing had ever happened, as if Sergio had never confessed that he was in love with him, as if they’d never so much as kissed, as if Iker hadn’t just been confronted with a fundamental shift in the entire way he saw himself, saw the world. 

Sergio was going to let him off the hook.

All Iker had to do was say he wanted him to.

“I…” he started to speak but the words died in his mouth. He realised, to his shock, that he had absolutely no idea what to say. Nothing came to him. There was nothing, he understood, that he could say that would be the right thing, that would explain to Sergio how bereft he felt at the thought of just going back to normality and forgetting all about this, and how guilty he felt when he remembered how badly he had wanted Sergio – still wanted him. If there was something he could ask of Sergio, something Sergio might grant him, a kind of concession, a favour, then Iker didn’t know what it was, couldn’t identify it and so couldn’t ask for it. 

“What do you want me to say?” Sergio said tiredly. “Tell me what you want to hear and I’ll say it, Iker."

Say you love me again, a mad, treacherous voice in Iker’s head urged. Say you love me, tell me it’s me and always been me, tell me all those other men meant nothing, promise you’ll be mine. His stomach twisted itself in knots, did somersaults.

He was going to be sick, Iker realised. He was going to vomit. Here, right in front of Sergio.

“Iker?” Sergio moved towards him, concerned, and placed a reassuring hand on Iker’s arm. “Are you okay?”

Iker couldn’t speak. It seemed a genuine possibility that to open his mouth was to risk humiliating himself further, vomiting all over Sergio’s shiny shoes and fuck, how did he manage to get them to look like that? And why was Iker even noticing them right now?

“You’ve lost your mind,” teased the sing-song voice of Imaginary Guti in his head. 

Fuck. Like Iker really needed to a reminder that he was possibly entirely crazy, just when he was trying to stop himself from being sick all over the man he thought maybe he actually loved. “Shut up,” he hissed, and it was only when he saw the hurt and confused expression on Sergio’s face that he realised he’d said it aloud.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered, swallowing the bile that threatened to rise and force itself out. Why? Why did he have to feel sick now? It was stress. It was all this tension, the confusion, the sheer terror that his life was going to change in a huge and unpredictable way and that it would probably be disastrous. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t healthy. “I just…I think I’m going to be sick.”

Sergio was immediately all concern, all tenderness again. Carefully he put his arm around Iker’s back and stroked soothing circles. “Do you need to go to the bathroom?” he asked. “Maybe it was something you ate. The food, maybe?”

“I think I just…need a moment,” Iker said. 

Sergio nodded sympathetically and Iker gingerly made his way to the en suite bathroom, closing the door behind him. He stared at his wan, tired face in the mirror and sighed.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Sergio sat on the side of the vast double bed. He rubbed his eyes tiredly. This wasn’t the right time for a heart to heart, he thought ruefully. Iker was too tense, too on edge, his nerves wracked by guilt and confusion and self-doubt and, no question, a healthy dose of anger and self-recrimination. Sergio himself was too wrung out, too stunned and hurt and still painfully hopeful. He was horribly aware that no matter what he said, both to himself and to Iker, a stubborn voice inside kept whispering that maybe, just maybe, this could be the start of something. Maybe Iker really could love him. Perhaps all those years of watching and waiting and wishing were not in vain after all. 

Absently he noticed a flashing light from the bedside table. It was his phone, he realised, with a little jolt of surprise. He’d forgotten that he’d dropped it there earlier, when he’d stormed out, away from Iker’s insistent kisses. He remembered stumbling down the corridor, cursing the lost phone and the fact that he couldn’t immediately call Rene and make him find him another club, anywhere, any country, any crest would do. Anywhere that didn’t have Iker Casillas. Preferably somewhere that had never heard of him.  
He picked up the phone and swiped to unlock it. 

Eight text messages, all from Fernando.

It wasn’t unusual to get texts from Fernando – sometimes maybe two or three in quick succession. Theirs was a friendship of peaks and troughs. Sometimes Fernando would go weeks without contacting Sergio – ignoring his texts, bar maybe the odd reply to say he was busy and would get in touch soon. Other times, he’d text several times a day, bombard Sergio with emails in which he would debate with surprising solemnity the various merits of a new range of baby buggies interspersed with complaints about how he’d never get used to English rain. They would skype, sometimes for hours, or just exchange jokes and observations by Whatsapp. 

Still, eight texts in a row, all the space of about thirty minutes, wasn’t normal.

Sergio figured that he could read the most recent message and get the gist of whatever was troubling Fernando from that, but when he read it, he couldn’t make any sense of it:

“If it’s what I think it is Sergio, I can’t believe you wouldn’t tell me.”

Sergio was baffled. What on earth could Fernando be talking about? There was nothing he hadn’t told Fernando that he should have, he was sure of it. 

He scrolled down and read the second last message.

“Answer me you dick. Tell me what’s going on.”

Sergio stared at the words on the screen. Fernando was calling him a dick? Clearly he was angry, but why, Sergio couldn’t begin to guess. He was certain he hadn’t done anything that would make Fernando mad. 

He scrolled down further and read the first text message his friend had sent.

“Called your phone and Iker answered. He said you were in the shower. And you’re both in Switzerland. What’s going on?”

Sergio felt as though he’d been suddenly splashed in the face with cold water. Dread wrapped its fingers around his heart, squeezed tightly. Iker. Talking to Fernando.  
He read the second message.

“I don’t get it. You never said he was going. I know it’s not weird he’s in your room. Just call me.”

Fernando’s confusion shone through, clear as day. Sergio pictured his friend, puzzling things out in his head, wondering and speculating and telling himself that whatever he was picturing was wrong, half-afraid that it was right.

But what could Iker have possibly said that would cause this confusion? It wasn’t strange for Iker and Sergio to attend the same events, and it was even less unusual for them to be in the same hotel room, even the same bathroom – hell, even the same shower. Playing professional football meant getting very up close and personal with your teammates and Fernando ordinarily wouldn’t be fazed at the thought of Sergio and Iker in a hotel room together.

Somehow, though, he’d read more into it than he usually would. 

Or Iker had encouraged him to.

With rising trepidation, Sergio opened the third message.

“It’s probably nothing. I’m being paranoid. Call me and tell me I’m a freak.”

Feeling sick, Sergio opened the fourth message.

“Why aren’t you answering? What are you doing? Not even you take this long in the shower. Sergio, what the fuck is going on?”

Poor Fernando. Sergio could feel his bewilderment and frustration, could imagine his face, pink with annoyance, saw him, obsessively checking his phone for an explanation that wasn’t forthcoming, and torturing himself with wild fantasies about what was going on, hundreds of miles away, in a hotel room in Switzerland.

Sergio read the fifth text.

“I know I’m being crazy but where ARE you? It’s not even what he said. It’s how he said it. Maybe I’m insane. Just tell me.”

Fernando was one of Sergio’s best friends. He loved him unreservedly. He’d been Fernando’s friend through pretty much his entire career, right from the glory days when he was el niño and every move he made, every touch of the ball seemed to lead to a goal. When he was the golden child, the idol of the Atletico crowd and therefore Sergio’s rival. Sergio had fought him on the pitch with the same fervour he brought to their friendship off it. He’d been his devoted friend when Fernando ha left for Liverpool, nervous and excited and half-terrified, and Sergio had watched him from a distance and felt his heart swelling with pride as his friend seduced Anfield into singing his name. They’d won the European Cup and then the World Cup together, but by then, Fernando’s glory day were already fading into the distance, already tinged with the fear that he’d never recover the form that had made him the hero of the Kop. 

He’d shared Fernando’s hope of a resurgence when Chelsea came calling, he’d watched every match and hoped and prayed that he’d see that spark again. He cherished every flicker of the old brilliance, cheered out loud at every goal scored and told himself each one was the one that would bring back the real Fernando. But the flickers were just that – temporary bursts of flame that never grew into more than that. 

They’d won another European Cup and Sergio had told Fernando that it was going to happen, he was going to be amazing, his career wasn’t over. He still believed it, always would, because believing in his friends was what Sergio did. 

When Fernando had, years ago, one night at a Spain training camp, just before the World Cup, leaned in and tentatively, nervously pressed a kiss to Sergio’s lips, letting it linger, Sergio had been tempted. He wasn’t a saint like Iker – had always been the hedonist, equal parts lover and fighter and Fernando was by any standards extremely attractive. And there he had been, lying with Sergio on Sergio’s bed, willing, eager even. 

For only the briefest of moments Sergio had considered returning that kiss – letting his tongue find Fernando’s, pulling that lithe body down on top of his own.  
He had resisted. It hadn’t even been hard, which was no slight to Fernando – it was simply that Sergio recognised that Fernando wanted him almost as badly as he wanted Iker, and maybe Sergio didn’t have much in the way of sexual standards, maybe he was happy to fuck married men and never think about their wives and families, but he wasn’t prepared to hurt a friend. 

Very gently and kindly he’d stopped Fernando, and when his friend had blushed bright red in embarrassment, he’d pulled him into a bear hug, told him that they’d always be friends, they need never talk about it again. 

That had worked, for a while, but there had been another time, months later. Another Spain training camp, and Fernando had stayed behind in Sergio’s hotel room after a long game of cards that had ended when Iker had eventually triumphed over Cesc and Puyol. Fernando and Sergio had been watching the game from the bed, half paying attention, half chatting about mutual friends in Madrid. Puyol had left first, then Cesc, and finally Iker, who’d departed with a smile and an affectionate tousle of Fernando’s hair and an emphatic kiss on Sergio’s cheek. 

Fernando had shown no signs of wanting to leave, and Sergio had assumed his friend wanted a private chat, a heart-to-heart about club-related woes and anxiety about his form. He’d been half right – Fernando had wanted to talk, but not about his lack of goals or his conviction that at least half his teammates mocked him behind his back.  
Instead, he’d asked Sergio why Sergio, who was clearly attracted to men, and who had, to Fernando’s certain knowledge, had sex with at least one married man (Sergio didn’t know precisely who had told his friend this, but strongly suspected David Villa, who spent a lot of time with Fernando because of their wives’ close friendship and who had once caught Sergio sneaking out of a rival player’s hotel room at an hour of the morning that defied reasonable explanation. Villa had never said anything to him, but Sergio thought this was because Villa had been coming out of a room other than his own too) - so why he wouldn’t sleep with Fernando? 

“I know you don’t think I’m ugly,” Fernando had said, and Sergio had assured him that of course he didn’t – Fernando was hot. Everyone thought so. Even Iker. Sergio had once spent an afternoon consumed by bitterly jealous fantasies of Iker with Fernando after the goalkeeper had innocently remarked that Fernando had an ass most women would be envious of.

But Fernando hadn’t been satisfied with Sergio’s assurances that he was attractive. He’d wanted to know if there was a reason Sergio didn’t want him: “is it because I’m married and you know my wife? Do you have some kind of code where you only sleep with men whose wives you’ve never met?” he asked, half-teasingly but with a definite edge. Sergio hadn’t wanted to discuss his sex life with Fernando – well, not the part of it that involved other men, anyway. And Fernando knew him so well, could read him like a book – it was only a matter of time before he worked out that Sergio harboured an unrequited ardour of his own.

Somehow Sergio had deflected and distracted and Fernando had given up, though over the years since there’d been times when he’d catch the striker looking at him with an expression half-wistful and half-contemplative. He’d teased Sergio about Iker too, lots of times – jokes about those pre-match kisses, or how Sergio was the only one who never got in trouble when he interrupted Iker’s siesta. 

Maybe Fernando had always suspected that Iker was the reason Sergio refused to take him up on his offer. Maybe Fernando, sensitive, sweet but so easily wounded, had always seen Iker as a rival for Sergio’s affections. It was all too possible that Sergio had never been as successful as he thought in concealing his feelings for the goalkeeper.

And now, somehow, Iker had said something that had caused Fernando to believe his suspicions were correct and it had hurt him. Sergio understood – Fernando would think that Sergio didn’t trust him enough to tell him how he felt and who he really wanted, he’d be hurt, his pride wounded too, no doubt, because how could it not hurt?

With real fear now, Sergio read the sixth text.

“Are you two fucking?”

Blunt, direct, and a dagger to Sergio’s heart. 

Fernando was angry, upset, betrayed. Jealous too, Sergio could well imagine. If he had ever had reason to suspect Iker was with another man, Sergio was certain that his jealousy and pain would have left him howling in the dark. 

Sergio sincerely hoped that Fernando didn’t care for him as he cared for Iker, but he had the terrible feeling that it was true. 

He needed to answer Fernando, calm him down, persuade him that whatever he thought Iker had said, he was wrong. He would have to lie. Deny everything. Pretend Fernando was paranoid, over-reacting.

He felt a sudden flash of real hatred for Iker, for putting him in this position at all. For messing with his head and giving Sergio a taste of what they could be like together when being together was impossible, for telling him that he loved him when he could never love Sergio like Sergio loved him, for hurting Fernando, who really did love him, when Fernando was fragile and his career in freefall. For not caring enough about his own precarious career and his own, seemingly perfect, relationship to have the good sense not to let this strange and sudden possessive streak cause him to risk exposure not only with Zlatan, but now with Fernando too.

Things were getting seriously out of control, and Sergio didn’t know what to do. Iker was supposed to be the sensible one, the calm, controlled, reasonable adult who made wise decisions and stopped Sergio from making mistakes.

The bathroom door opened and Iker emerged, pale but looking considerable less nauseous. He was drying his hands with a white towel.

Sergio glared at him with true fury.

“What the fuck did you say to Fernando?” he snarled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for really long delay with this chapter and a big thank you to the people still reading! :)


	18. Chapter 18

Iker stared at Sergio blankly. The defender’s eyes flashed with anger, he was a completely different person to the concerned, considerate man who’d urged Iker into the bathroom only a few minutes earlier.

Fernando. For a moment Iker was so genuinely puzzled that he thought Sergio was talking about Morientes. "Idiot," said the voice of Imaginary Guti fondly. "Why would he be talking about Mori? What's he got to do with anything?" Iker shook his head. Torres. It would be be Torres. It always Torres, with Sergio. Still, why was he asking about Fernando now?

“Well?” Sergio demanded. “What did you say?”

Iker just continued to gawp. Why was Sergio bringing up Fernando? What had he got to do with anything? “I don’t…” he stuttered.

“I have eight messages on my phone Iker!” Sergio snapped. “He said he talked to you and you told him….I don’t know what you told him, but whatever it was, he’s got the idea that there’s something going on.”

Iker swallowed. Of course. He’d answered Sergio’s phone earlier and talked to Fernando.

“Not just talked to him,” teased Imaginary Guti. “Taunted him, more like. Let him believe that you were here, lounging around the room while Sergio had a shower. Letting him wonder what was really happening.” 

Iker wanted to argue the point, but debating with a figment of his imagination wasn’t going to win him any points in the sanity stakes and anyway, he could hardly deny it. He remembered speaking to Fernando, remembered how the sound of the younger man’s voice had set him on edge, how it had stirred up feelings of jealousy and possessiveness, brought him the suddenly familiar need to somehow claim Sergio, to keep him away from other men, men that Iker had previously seen as fellow professionals, colleagues, friends, but now seemed to see only as potential predators. He knew it was wrong, knew the urge was twisted and too intense and that he had no right. 

Talking to Fernando had brought out that instinct, to keep Fernando away from Sergio, to kill any hope the striker had of ever having Sergio as more than a friend. Iker hadn’t said very much, and what he’d said wasn’t even particularly unusual, not for most footballers, and certainly not for Iker and Sergio, who had played together for the same club and same country for years, who lived near each other and saw each other virtually every day and who had shared showers and bedrooms and even beds, many times and always without incident. Always, until the last couple of days. Still, speaking to Fernando, Iker had spoken of ordinary events but imbued them with insinuation, with suggestion. He’d talked of normal occurrences but let his tone lace them with definite bedroom undertones.

Fernando had read into Iker’s words, but that was exactly what Iker had intended.

“I just…” Iker began, ashamed. “I didn’t say anything really, I just said…”

“You just said what?”

“I said that we were here together…that you weren’t around, that you were in the shower…” Iker knew he was stammering, that he sounded evasive, that Sergio wouldn’t believe him.

The expression on Sergio’s face proved him right. The defender was looking at him scornfully, disbelief etched all over his handsome face. “It was more than that.”

It wasn’t though. Or not that Iker could recall. He couldn’t remember exactly what he’d said to Fernando, the precise words weren’t important. What mattered was what he’d tried to convey to him, and that was what he couldn’t quite explain to Sergio. The younger man had made it perfectly clear that he was not going to stand for Iker’s displays of jealousy, that Iker had no right to make demands or insist that Sergio stop seeing other men, that he wasn’t going to allow Iker to interfere in his friendships.  
Which would have been fine, Iker thought bitterly, if it didn’t look like Sergio’s so-called friends all wanted to get him into bed. 

Fucking Fernando. He should have known that innocent-seeming face was a lie. Torres was supposed to be the perfect husband, the guy who married his childhood sweetheart and went on to be the perfect father to beautiful children. That was the image, that was the story Fernando told, and Iker had believed it. He’d never had any reason to question it, never heard any rumours about Torres with girls in Spain or England. Because Torres had been lusting after Sergio instead. And not just from a distance – he’d made a move.  
Just thinking about it made Iker angry, made him want to confront Fernando about it, rant and yell, made him want to hear Sergio tell him again and again that he’d turned him down, never let Fernando so much as kiss him, because it was Iker he wanted, Iker he’d always wanted.

Iker met Sergio’s eyes, took in the glitter of anger in his eyes, the determined set of his jaw. “It wasn’t more than that,” he said. “I don’t remember exactly what I said but it wasn’t much more than that.”

Sergio watched Iker for any hint that he was lying, or at the very least being evasive. There was nothing. Iker was telling the truth, he decided. And Fernando’s own texts backed Iker’s version up. Fernando had said himself that it wasn’t what Iker had said, but the way in which he’d said it. “How did you say it then?” he demanded. “You must have done something to make him freak out like this. He’s going crazy!”

“I don’t know!” Iker protested. “I don’t remember how I said. I said…look, ok, I might have…that is...I can see how maybe he might have got the wrong idea. My tone…but so what, what right has he got to go crazy, Sergio? Well?”

Sergio looked at Iker, his face pink with what was probably both shame and anger. Iker never liked getting called on his shit. Iker wanted to seem perfect all the time, well behaved and honourable, the perfect gentleman and the ideal captain. Bad matches caused him sleepless nights, missed saves he’d have made on a better day haunted him. And being accused of lying, or behaving badly, or hurting someone, rankled with him, made him defensive and tetchy and liable to lash out. 

That was what was happening here, Sergio knew. Iker was trying to turn this around, make it seem more like something Sergio should feel bad about. As if it was somehow Sergio’s fault that Fernando had got the wrong impression, even though Iker was the one to blame, just because Sergio was the one Fernando was attracted to.

“He’s confused, Iker,” Sergio said. “He’s confused and he’s pissed off because I haven’t answered him and he’s mad because he thinks that there is something going on with us and that I’ve been hiding it from him when he’s supposed to be one of my best friends.” Sergio could have laughed at the entire mess if it wasn’t so fucking horrifying. It was true, he thought. Sometimes getting what you wanted was the very worst thing that could happen to you.

“Best friends?” Iker scoffed. “He wants to fuck you. He wants you and he’s jealous of us. That’s what this is about. He’s jealous because he doesn’t want me to have you and he’s mad because I do.”

“You don’t, Iker,” Sergio said angrily. “You don’t have me. There’s no us.” 

Iker opened his mouth to respond and found he couldn’t. What could he say? Sergio was right. It hurt to hear it, hurt far more than Iker would ever have imagined, but it was true. He didn’t have Sergio. There was no them. They were not a couple and they never could be. No matter how badly he might wish it to be otherwise, it never could be, not without sacrificing more than Iker was willing to give up and causing more pain that he was prepared to inflict. He sank down onto the bed, his face in his hands. 

Sergio could feel tears pricking his eyes and he wiped them away, one-handed. He felt broken, wrung out. He’d said the words, and he knew they were true, and Iker knew it too.  
They were not a couple. They never would be. Nothing had changed. 

Sergio marvelled at how something that he’d always known to be true still had the capacity to hurt him this much.

That had always been how it was with Iker, he thought. Months and months would go by, and he’d think he was over him, he’d be happy and content, maybe seeing some girl who really might turn out to be the one who’d finally make him forget Iker, and then Iker would be right there, slipping an arm around his waist on a night out, pressing a kiss to his cheek before leaving training, looking at him with those soft warm eyes and telling him he was wonderful. And Sergio would feel like he’d been punched in the gut.  
Loving someone shouldn’t hurt this much. Unrequited love couldn’t last forever, Sergio kept telling himself, had been telling himself so for years, so why did it just go on and on?  
Sooner or later something would have to change.

Sergio couldn’t live like this any longer.

“I’m sorry,” Iker said finally, looking up at him with those eyes that Sergio loved so much, eyes that were tired and bloodshot now. “You’re right. You’re right about everything. I’m sorry that I...that what I said upset Fernando. I’ll fix it.”

“It’s alright,” Sergio said, although it really wasn’t. Fernando would be ok, Sergio would talk to him and tell him Iker had been joking, of course they weren’t fucking, didn’t Fernando know that Iker was the poster boy for Mr Perfect Family Man, of course he’d never look at Sergio like that. Fernando would believe him, at least in part because he wanted to, and if there was one thing Sergio had learned from years of furtive dalliances with married men whose wives looked the other way when they returned home with scratches and marks that no one could have really picked up on the pitch, it was that people could make themselves believe any story if it was preferable to confronting the truth.

“It’s not,” Iker said half-heartedly, about to protest further, but Sergio had had enough pain to last him an entire lifetime, and listening to Iker self-flagellate was not something he could bear right now.

“It’s fine,” Sergio insisted. “I’ll talk to Fernando and it’ll be fine. But this can’t happen again Iker. Do you hear me? Do you understand?” He knelt down in front of the man he’d loved for years and forced him to meet his eyes. “You can’t do that again.”

Iker looked at his friend’s earnest face, at his eyes, usually so bright and alive, now tear-stained and sad. He’d never wanted to hurt Sergio, never wanted to upset him. In truth he’d never realised he had that power, to make Sergio look so broken. He nodded. “I know,” he said, swallowing the lump in his throat. “It won’t.” 

“I don’t just mean Fernando,” Sergio said, forcing himself to continue. “I mean…we need to leave this behind. This thing….what we did…whatever it was, we need to leave it here. We need to forget about it and go home and pretend it never happened.”

He was right, and Iker knew it. He nodded.

Sergio’s eyes dropped to the floor, as if he needed to focus on anything other than Iker’s face right now, as if Iker’s gaze was a searchlight, relentlessly seeking out his weak spots, his frailties. Iker was overcome once again with guilt, and really it was remarkable how every time he thought he couldn’t feel any worse, he somehow managed it. He reached out a finger and gently raised Sergio’s chin. His friend’s eyes were sad and tired, worn out. 

Iker’s hands slid into Sergio’s hair and his fingers stroked their way through the soft strands. 

Sergio sighed.

Iker leaned in, resting his forehead against the younger man’s, all the while continuing the gentle rhythmic strokes.

“I’m so sorry, Sergio,” he said softly. “For everything. Not just Fernando. For…the whole weekend. For…for all those years when…when you felt…and I didn’t know. I’m sorry I hurt you.”

Sergio didn’t respond. He could say that he forgives Iker – because he does, wholeheartedly, and always has. He’d never blamed Iker for being incapable of returning his feelings and he didn’t blame him now for being confused, for reaching out to Sergio out of fear and jealousy. Iker was going through the toughest time in his career. Sergio forgave Iker, and he knew that Iker had never deliberately set out to hurt him, but the fact remained he had, and he would probably continue to. There was nothing either one of them could really do about that, not as long as they both wanted to keeping playing for Madrid. 

His eyes drifted closed, lulled by the sensation of Iker’s fingers carding gently through his hair, Iker’s soft exhalations of breath and the feel of his forehead against his, firm and solid and real. He made himself focus on this, the way it felt to have Iker give him this undivided attention, so care and sincere and full of love, even if it wasn’t the kind of love Sergio might have wanted.

“We need to go home, Iker,” he whispered eventually. “It’ll all feel better at home.”

He was probably right, Iker thought. Safely back in Madrid, in his own home, in his own bed, his pregnant girlfriend wrapped securely in his arms, everything would feel clearer, the confusion would melt away, replaced by the certainty that this was the life he was meant to have, this was the person he was meant to be with, and whatever had happened with Sergio would eventually become just a memory, to be looked back with guilt and a certain degree of regret but ultimately, consigned to the darkest recesses of his mind, locked away and half-forgotten. In time Iker would forget how it felt to stroke Sergio’s soft skin, he’d forget what it had been like to slide into that tight, welcoming heat and to hear how much and for how long Sergio had wanted him. He’d forget that for a brief time he’d thought that maybe it was Sergio he loved, Sergio he wanted. These couple of days would be erased from his mind, obliterated by years full of his future son’s laughter and tears, by nights spent planning and dreaming and loving with the woman who would, he was sure, one day be his wife.

His hands in Sergio’s hair stilled. He leaned in and let his lips meet the younger man’s. Sergio was motionless, perfectly quiet and compliant, waiting. Iker kissed him, gently at first, then insistently as Sergio simply accepted the kiss without returning it. His teeth nipped lightly at Sergio’s lower lip and finally, half-reluctantly, Sergio’s mouth opened and he kissed Iker back, their tongues meeting and Iker concentrated, focussing on the feel of Sergio’s lips against his, the faint bristle of his stubble against Iker’s cheek, the smell of that expensive shampoo he used and the little sound he made when Iker sucked that full lower lip. 

When he finally pulled away, Sergio’s eyes were dry, they were bright and clear and he looked at Iker with so much open affection it took Iker’s breath away.

Maybe he wouldn’t remember everything perfectly, Iker told himself. But maybe he didn’t need to. He’d remember this, he told himself, always. He would remember a hotel room in Switzerland, and kissing Sergio Ramos as he knelt in front of him, young and strong and so much braver than Iker ever would be.

“Let’s go home,” Iker said, and Sergio nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone still reading, thanks for sticking with this and I'm so sorry for the long wait! Next chapter will not take so long, promise!


	19. Chapter 19

The flight back to Madrid was spent mostly in silence. Sergio sat beside Iker, as usual, but he slipped his headphones on as soon as he’d sat down and soon he was lying back, eyes closed, lost in whatever music he was listening to. Iker tried to interest himself in the inflight magazine, but no, he was not interested in taking a minibreak to Bruges, no, he did not want to buy a model of the plane currently bearing him back to Spain, and no, he did not care about ten exciting things to try in Turin. He tried to distract himself by reading the complimentary newspaper, but nothing – not the bleak stories of growing unemployment or another opinion piece on Catalan independence or even sports news – another win for Nadal, a crash for Alonso in training, rumours of a possible transfer for Negredo – could hold his attention for longer than a few seconds. To his own annoyance he kept catching himself sneaking glances at Sergio, trying to determine whether the younger man was really asleep, or simply pretending to so that he could avoid awkward chit chat.

Iker wanted to talk – he felt like he was bursting from the effort of not speaking – but he hadn’t the faintest idea what he’d like to say. There was nothing he could say, nothing that would change what had happened. Sergio was in pain, he knew, but Iker could say nothing to help, nothing that would take away the hurt. What could he say that would mean anything? And even if he could find the words, he couldn’t say them here, on a plane surrounded by people already intensely aware of the two famous footballers seated near the front of the plane, who were surreptitiously watching them over their magazines or Kindles, who were going up and down the aisles to the toilets with a frequency that suggested a plane full of hapless individuals afflicted with a serious bladder control problem, all in order to sneak a glance at Iker and Sergio.

In the seat in front of him, Manuela had struck up a conversation with the woman sitting beside her and they were having a long and animated discussion about a book they were both reading. Iker tried to pay attention to what they were saying, just for something to distract him, but it was futile.

He played a game of solitaire on his iPad and then tried to interest himself in a novel he’d downloaded at Xavi’s recommendation, but the words were smudges on the screen, blurred and indecipherable. Giving up, he resigned himself to trying to sleep, but his thoughts were racing, his mind too full of memories of what he had done with Sergio – the taste of his kisses, the smell of his skin, the noises he made…but there was no point torturing himself. The problem was even when he managed to rid his mind of images of Sergio beneath him, he found himself tormented instead by his guilt, by the realisation of what he’d done and everything he’d risked. A treasured friendship with the man who’d stood by him through everything. The trust of a teammate who’d always been on his side. And the love of the woman he was planning to spend his life with, build a family with.  
Soon he would be back with her, would go home to the house they shared, to the furniture they’d chosen together. He’d kiss her hello, he’d listen to her talk about her day, about what she’d done the night before, he’d munch an apple while she told him about how the baby was kicking, whether she’d slept well. She’d ask him about Switzerland and he’d share a couple of anecdotes – how he really couldn’t understand John Terry at all, how he’d seen Gigi Buffon and talked goalkeeping with Neuer. He’d avoid all mention of Zlatan and Falcao and, when she asked, as she inevitably would, about Sergio, he’d brush her off with a shrug and a “you know Sergio,” and change the subject. They’d go to bed, he’d kiss her goodnight, and she’d fall asleep, peaceful and calm and utterly secure in their relationship, totally trusting. And Iker would lie there and feel like the worst person in the world.

He’d get over it, he told himself. Plenty of other men, men he knew, men he considered friends, had done much worse, and much more often. He knew guys who’d married wonderful women but nevertheless had a succession of girlfriends and one night stands on the side. He knew men who were complete strangers to the idea of monogamy, who thought no night out was complete if it didn’t involve, at a bare minimum, a blow job in the nightclub VIP section. They seemed to have no difficulty living with their betrayals, and Iker didn’t judge them – he’d just never wanted to be them. Yes, he’d get over it, and probably sooner than he should. He’d find a way to live with what he’d done, he’d grow accustomed to the guilt, and over time he’d find himself forgetting, the details would blur, he’d no longer remember the colour of sheets he’d pushed Sergio down onto, he’d forget whether he’d first kissed Sergio in the empty ballroom with its ostentatious columns or whether it had been in Sergio’s hotel room. He’d confuse the storage room where he’d almost hit Zlatan and then had fast, intense sex with Sergio with a laundry room, he’d find himself wondering whether he’d brought the condoms and lube that first time, or whether Sergio had them.

But he’d never forget how it had felt to kiss Sergio. He’d never forget how Sergio’s mouth had felt, wrapped around his cock, he’d never forget the first time he’d pushed into that tight heat. He’d remember, forever, the sound of Sergio, moaning his name, begging for more. He would go to his grave, still knowing exactly how it felt to come inside him and know that Sergio wanted it, wanted him.

________________________________________________________________________________

Sergio focussed on the beat of the samba compilation Marcelo had chosen for him and tried to distract himself from Iker – Iker, beside him, fidgeting in the seat and clearly unable to concentrate on anything, rustling his newspaper and sighing at his magazine and tapping angrily on his iPad – but it was impossible. He tried to distract himself from the urge to tear off his headphones, to lean in and whisper….something, anything – that would fix it, that would undo all the damage that had been done, that would take away Iker’s guilt and pain and that would somehow, magically, cure Sergio of pathetic infatuation. He focussed instead on trying to decide how to fix things with Fernando. That, at least, was a problem he could solve – a simple matter of finding the right words to assure Fernando that nothing had happened, that there was nothing between him and Iker and never had been. Fernando would believe him – would want to believe him – and they could resume their friendship without Sergio having to confront Fernando’s own jealousy and hurt.

Somehow, Sergio managed to drift into sleep, startled awake an hour later by Iker gently shaking his shoulder. He opened his eyes and found himself staring into Iker’s soft brown eyes, and in their depths he could read emotions he’d never imagined causing in Iker – guilt, anxiety, tenderness and, unmistakably, desire. “Sergio,” Iker whispered, and Sergio swallowed. “We’ve landed,” the older man said, still staring at Sergio with those soft eyes. Sergio nodded and straightened in his chair, and Iker shifted in his seat, glanced out of the window at the airport, its windows lit up, bright and full of people, going about their ordinary lives.

Sergio busied himself in putting away his headphones and iPad and the magazine he’d bought on impulse in Switzerland, trying to forget the things he’d read in Iker’s eyes, the confusion, the guilt, the desire. Things he could never allow himself to think about again. Not if he wanted to stay sane.

Manuela took over, as she always did, easing their way off the plane and through security, speeding them through the airport and ensuring that they were escorted out of the building with a minimum of fuss.

It was then that Sergio remembered, heart sinking, that Iker had driven him to the airport in his car. It was normal for them; they did it all the time – they’d go together to training, to the national team, sometimes for team lunches or dinners. Unless there was a reason not to – some other obligation, plans with family or friends. They travelled together unless it made sense not to. And they’d had no reason not to. Iker had picked Sergio up from his house and driven him to the airport, bickering over the music Iker was playing and discussing their last match while Iker munched on the apple Sergio had brought just for him.

Sergio could take a taxi, sure, but that would just make it even more obvious, even more clear, that their friendship – that special relationship that had lasted years, that had weathered more storms than Sergio could even remember, that had been through changes of manager, changes of coaching staff, that had won and lost and laughed and cried, that had lasted through girlfriends whose names were long forgotten and teammates whose faces were only dimly recalled – was lost, was damaged, perhaps irreparably.  
No. Sergio wasn’t going to do that. He wasn’t taking the easy road. He wasn’t going to lose Iker, wasn’t going to risk throwing away a friendship that he’d cherished. Sergio might have lacked many things, but courage had never been one of them. He wasn’t weak. He would get in the car with Iker, he’d make determined lighthearted small talk, he’d let Iker take him home and then he’d say goodbye cheerfully and Iker would go back to resume his normal life of blissful and uninterrupted heterosexuality.

Iker, as he fumbled with his suitcase (what was wrong with the wheel on it, he was sure it had never stuck like that before?), realised at almost the same time as Sergio that he had brought the younger man to the airport, and now either Sergio accepted a lift back with him, as originally planned, or he took a taxi. The thought made something twist in Iker’s stomach.

They walked with Manuela towards the car park, and she chatted easily to them about how things had gone and what she had thought of the hotel and the food while Iker wondered whether Sergio was biding his time, waiting for Manuela to leave before telling Iker that he’d take a taxi, that he wouldn’t go with Iker.

Manuela found her car and said goodnight, and Iker headed towards his own vehicle, practically sighing with relief when Sergio silently followed him, dragging his suitcase behind him.

Iker unlocked the car and without speaking, they loaded their cases and sat in, buckling their belts.

The car park was dark and quiet and Sergio switched radio stations until he found one playing plaintive flamenco while Iker drove them out of the car park and headed towards home.

They drove in silence, Sergio absently tapping out the beat to the flamenco on his knee, Iker concentrating on the road, the traffic, on the light of the city as they headed towards La Finca.

When, finally, he pulled into Sergio’s driveway and turned off the engine, cutting off El Camaron mid-lament for the woman who’d left him, the silence, tense before but not unbearable due to the sounds of the radio, suddenly seemed oppressive, torturous.

Sergio moved to open the door and Iker’s hand flew out, almost of its own accord, gripping his wrist. “Sergio,” he said hoarsely.

Sergio turned to look at him, backlit by the security lights of his driveway. “Yes?” he said.

“I…everything we…what happened…I want…I want us to be ok.”

Sergio sighed. He took in Iker’s tired eyes, the sadness that seemed to radiate from him. “We will be, Iker,” he said softly. “We’ll be fine.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Iker admitted. “What do I do now?”

“You go home,” Sergio said. “You go home, and you forget it. Pretend it never happened.”

“It’s not that easy,” Iker said.

“No, it’s not easy,” Sergio agreed. “But you need to do it.”

Iker rubbed his eyes, ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know how.”

This wasn’t fair, Sergio thought. How could he be expected to sit here and convince Iker to go back to his girlfriend, back to his safe, normal life, when all he wanted was to beg him not to? He knew that he was doing the right thing, the honourable thing, even the brave thing – giving up what he wanted because it wouldn’t ever work between them, because Iker was, at heart, straight and in love with a woman Sergio could never measure up to. He would never be enough for Iker, could never make him happy, Iker would never love him the way he wanted to be loved. He knew all of this, but that didn’t make this easy for him and it certainly didn’t make it fair. Still, Sergio supposed he’d stopped expecting anything about his feelings for Iker to be fair a long time ago. Fairness had very little to do with love.

  
“How do you do it?” Iker asked, looking at him almost curiously.

He couldn’t suppress a bitter laugh. Iker didn’t know how. Iker, San Iker, perfect devoted Iker, had never cheated, never had a one night stand while he was away with the national team and his girlfriend was in Spain, never taken up the offers of all the eager women in the clubs they went to on team nights out while their wives and girlfriends were safely home in bed. He didn’t know how to do what came so naturally to so many men of their mutual acquaintance. And he was asking Sergio how he did? Like Sergio was just another cheating husband or selfish hedonist who never thought about who he might hurt.

“I don’t do it, Iker,” he snapped. “I know you think I’m some kind of…some kind of slut who just sleeps with whoever asks but I don’t. I don’t.”

Iker looked horrified. “I don’t think that Sergio,” he protested. “I swear, I don’t think you’re…you’re that. I just…you’ve…you’ve been hiding this for a long time.”

Sergio took a deep breath. “Yeah,” he said shortly. “Well, I have reasons for that. But it doesn’t mean I cheat on my girlfriends with men. I don’t. The men I sleep with…they cheat, yeah. But that’s on them, not me.”

Iker was no longer surprised at the sharp burst of pain he felt when Sergio talked about the other men he’d been with. “The men I sleep with,” Sergio had said. Present tense. Sergio wasn’t ruling out sleeping with men again. There were going to be other men. Sergio would go to bed with men who weren’t Iker and there was nothing Iker could do or say to prevent it. He wasn’t surprised at the pain he felt, but that didn’t make it easier to bear. He was jealous, intensely, bitterly jealous, and he knew he had no right and he knew it wasn’t fair but he was powerless to stop it.

“You’ll be fine, Iker,” Sergio said. “The guys I see…they cope. It’ll be easier for you. You love her. You’re going to be with the person who makes you happy. You’ll have a baby. It’ll get easier and you’ll forget about it.” Sergio met Iker’s gaze, and he smiled weakly. “You’re going to be really happy, Iker. I know it.”

Iker knew he was right. Forgetting what had happened was the right decision and somehow he’d find a way to bear it.

But he couldn’t bear it if Sergio was still sleeping with other guys.

He knew that with a certainty that was frightening, that was sickening. He couldn’t focus on moving on, fixing things, on getting back to normal, not while he was consumed with jealous fantasies of Sergio seeing other men. How could he concentrate on his family while he was tormented with thoughts that Sergio letting other men fuck him?  
It was impossible.

“Sergio,” he said, knowing as he began to speak that what he was about to ask was unfair, was wrong, was something he had absolutely no right to want. “Would you…would you be able to…” He swallowed. Took a deep breath, and met Sergio’s questioning eyes. “I can’t do this if you’re seeing them.” He hated himself for the bitter jealousy that infused his words, hating his weakness and lack of control.

“Them?” Sergio asked, brow furrowed in confusion.

Iker blushed. “Other men,” he muttered.

Sergio was silent for a moment, just watching Iker’s face, the tense set of his shoulders, the anxiety in his eyes.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t angry with Iker, that he didn’t feel his temper threaten to erupt. Close to surface was the urge to shout, to yell, to wail at the injustice of it all, to berate Iker for his cruelty, his selfishness. Yes, he felt anger, he felt the unfairness of it all, pressing down on him. But mostly, he simply felt tired. Worn out.

“I don’t have other men, Iker,” he said quietly. “You’re the first man I’ve been with in months.”

The thrill of satisfaction that Iker felt at the words was tempered by those two words, “in months”. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t a guarantee. Sergio hadn’t been with another man in months – that didn’t mean he wouldn’t find another man soon. Someone else, someone better than Iker, someone available and willing. It was clear that there was no lack of eager candidates.

“I know I have no right,” he said. “I know I shouldn’t ask, and I know you’ll hate me for it. But please…just…could you promise me that you won’t? I mean, not forever. Just for…three months.” That didn’t sound entirely unreasonable, he told himself. Three months wasn’t that long, but it was long enough, he was sure, for Iker to get over whatever the hell he was feeling, long enough for him to put Geneva behind him and get his life back on track. Long enough, maybe, for everything to start making sense again.

“Three months,” Sergio said flatly. “Three months of what exactly? Not seeing other guys? What does that mean – not going for a drink with a man?”

“No just…just, Sergio,” Iker said pleadingly. “Just…don’t have sex with another guy. Or…you know. Kiss. Or other…just, nothing like that with guys, for three months. That’s all.”

Sergio said nothing. He stared out of the window at the house, looked up at his bedroom window above, and wished with all his heart that he was there, that he was lying between cool sheets, in the dark and quiet, where no one would see how broken he was, where no one would ask him questions he couldn’t answer, or make demands he couldn’t refuse, where he could lie alone in the darkness and let misery wash over him, let it envelop him, let himself get lost in it, and surface in the morning, ready to face the day, his grief locked away, buried deep in his heart, and steadfastly ignored until night fell again.

“Sergio?” Iker asked, afraid, terrified that this was a demand too far, that Sergio would be so infuriated that he would decide there and then that he was finished with Iker, that he didn’t want even their friendship.

“Alright,” Sergio whispered. “Alright, Iker. Three months.”

There was no point in telling Iker that he couldn’t imagine, now, ever wanting another man again. No other man could ever make him feel as Iker had made him feel, no other man could ever live up to Iker, Iker with him, in him, surrounding him. There was no man alive who’d ever managed to eclipse Iker in the past, and no one would ever. He knew it, he was more sure of it than he’d ever been of anything in his life.

It didn’t matter.

Eventually he’d want a man again – another man who wasn’t Iker but looked enough like him so that Sergio could pretend, or someone who was his polar opposite, so that Sergio could lie to himself that he didn’t want pale skin and dark hair.

But that would be far in the future, that wouldn’t be next week, next month, probably not even next year.

He’d give Iker his three months, if that was what he needed, what he thought would help him get back to normal.

“You promise?” Iker asked, the relief to obvious Sergio almost smiled. To think that Iker could ever be made happy by Sergio promising to abstain from men for three months. Ridiculous. He’d never have dreamt it.  
“I promise,” Sergio said.

“That’s….you’re so…fuck, Sergio. I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No you shouldn’t,” Sergio replied. “But you did and I promised so let’s just forget it. I’m tired, Iker. I want to go to bed.”

He did look tired, Iker realised, taking in Sergio’s pale face. “Of course,” he said, chastened. “I’m sorry.”

Sergio opened his seatbelt and moved to open the car door. Iker’s hand on his arm restrained him. He turned to look at the older man.

Iker was watching him intently. He moved in, slowly, and Sergio realised Iker was going to kiss him. Not on the lips – just their usual press of lips against cheek, innocent and benign.

Sergio moved away, and ignored the hurt in Iker’s eyes, the way he looked down, moved away from Sergio. “Goodnight, Iker,” Sergio said softly, and got out of the car.  
Iker waited for Sergio to remove his case from the car, watched him walk to the house and let himself in, waited to see the hall light flicker on.

For a minute or two he sat there, alone, and imagined getting out of the car, rushing to the door and hammering on it until Sergio let him in. He pictured Sergio, confused, perhaps a little angry, opening the door and then Iker simply kissing him, kissing him and kissing him until Sergio kissed back, forgot his anger, forgot everything, and let Iker kiss him, let Iker take him upstairs, let Iker learn his body all over again.

He shook his head. It was a tempting fantasy, but it couldn’t be reality, could never be real again.

He forced himself to think of what lay ahead. The beautiful, pristine home with the carefully chosen furniture, the pictures on the walls of family and friends, mementoes from Iker’s career – framed team photos, jerseys. He imagined the smell of flowers in the air, and the way the bed would dip gently when he got into it. He thought about the feel of soft skin against his and a slender waist that he could fit two hands around most of the time. He thought of long brown hair and a loving smile and a woman he’d never thought he’d ever deserve. He thought of the life growing inside her, and the years that were ahead of them.

He turned the key in the ignition and drove home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...this is it! I'm sorry it's taken so long - much longer than I thought when I started! I think there will possibly be a sequel - I don't know if I can let go of this yet! Thanks to everyone who read and especially those who commented! I hope you enjoyed it. x


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